Across the Waking Sea
by JessicaJones
Summary: Why aren't Alistair, Zevran, and the dog with the Warden at Vigil's Keep? They're off having their own adventure, of course.
1. An Unexpected Exit

**Author's Note**:

_This story is inspired by various bits of conversation that suggest that Alistair is dead, when not King, in DAO:Awakenings. I've decided these aren't a glitch or an oversight, but rather part of a far reaching conspiracy. Bioware, please feel free to send me a No-Prize. Also thanks for the characters, who are not my own.  
_

_Rated M for a small amount of sex and some swashbuckling violence._

* * *

..

Nancora Surana was not ungrateful. The parade had been very nice. After so many months of running from Loghain and darkspawn and bandits and _everything_, it felt really good to be wanted and appreciated by someone. By a whole lot of someones, in fact. But it had been a long week. There had never been a longer week in the history of the universe, she thought. After all of it, she was nothing if not bone tired, and very glad to be back at camp with her party, reduced in membership though it now was.

She found she was uncomfortable sleeping in a bed, now. They were just so _fluffy._ When she got to Vigil's Keep, she would have to get used to it again, but for now she wanted the familiar feel of dirt beneath her back, and pitched canvas the only thing between her and open sky. She sat just outside her tent, pulling absently at the sparse grass, and enjoyed the stillness, for once.

Holding a stick, Alistair stood by the fire, poking it. He was pensive, and quiet: it had been a _very_ long week. He caught her looking at him and smiled, a little nervously. "So, love... I've been thinking."

"Alistair." Nancora gave him a lopsided grin. "You know that's never a good idea."

"Right, right, sorry, I know. I'm an idiot." He tossed the stick into the fire, and it caught and burned. "But listen... this is important."

She waited patiently. He looked at her with wide hazel eyes, and Nancora sighed. He was very beautiful, she thought, standing there in the firelight. Things had never been so simple for them as they were in that moment. The Blight was over, the sky was clear, the forest was peaceful and idyllic, and as Nancora breathed the crisp night air she thought she had might never been happier in her whole life.

He said: "I have to leave you."

Shame he had to go and ruin it.

Nancora blinked. "Again?" she said. "But I thought now that you've made your memorial for Duncan..."

He sat down next to her and took a deep breath. On rare occasion Alistair could be deadly serious, and Nancora could see this was one of those times. She found herself digging her fingernails into her thighs. "I love you," he said, rather ominously. "I hope if nothing else, you are sure of that." She nodded suspiciously.

"Here's the thing though," he said. "One of us is supposed to be dead. That's how these things go, that's how Blights end. It won't be long before the Wardens from Orlais start asking us why we're both... you know... alive."

"I thought we were going to play stupid," Nancora said, her eyes narrowing. "Your words. Let them think Riordan absorbed the Archdemon."

"You know that won't work," Alistair said. "Hundreds of soldiers saw him fall off that dragon. There's already a song about it going around the taverns. It's quite catchy."

"Leliana..." Nancora rolled her eyes.

"It doesn't matter," Alistair said quickly. "Everyone knows that it was our team that did the slaying."

"Yes," Nancora snapped, her temper flaring. "_Everyone_ knows we survived. Your disappearing won't solve anything."

"No. Everyone knows that _you_ survived," he corrected. "The parade was for you. And thank the Maker for that, because if the Orlesians realize that no Wardens died with the Archdemon, it will only be a matter of time, Nan."

She felt as though she were being ambushed, and she bit back an irrational feeling of betrayal as he continued. "The Wardens are a scary lot," he said. "I don't like to speak ill of the order, you know that. They have their reasons, most of them justified." He took a deep breath. "But…. you saw how they killed Jory, at your Joining, when he showed the slightest threat. They will do whatever it takes to carry out their mission. If they even suspect that we have made some sort of dark deal with an Old God, they will kill both of us, without question."

At this, Nancora paled. It could be terrifying when Alistair made sense.

He took another deep breath. "Anyway, I think the only thing for it is for me to take off. Best for both of us, even."

There was a silence between them so thick that it could smother a bronto. Neither of them moved.

"Anora," Nancora said finally. "She knows you survived. She'll spoil it, she hates-"

"No," Alistair said, with a shake of his head. "She agreed to go along with it. It's better for her if I don't exist, and no one can raise a revolt in my name." He looked down at his hands. "She's already added my name to the memorial, for Grey Wardens who died in the Blight."

Nancora gaped. "You've _already_ spoken with her?" she asked, her voice starting to screech.

"Yes," he admitted.

"But Eamon-"

"Will play along, too," Alistair said, "since I explained that it is for my safety."

"So you've already told everyone," Nancora snapped. "Except, you know, _me_."

"Well…" he said, then sighed, then, "Yes."

And he looked at her, his face a mask of sympathy and sorrow. Sorrow, but also certainty; there was nothing Nancora could say to keep him with her. "You've obviously already made up your mind," she said, her voice icy. With her, this was literal; in her anger, her magic would leak out. "I wish you would have talked to me earlier, when there was still something I could _say, _or_ do, _or_…_. argh! Alistair!" and she felt electricity jumping along her skin and she stopped, tried to breath. _Don't lose control._ She closed her eyes, calming herself, trying not to feel like the ground was falling away beneath her.

"But you can't," she said weakly, when the panic abated. "Because… because the only reason I told you to do... what I told you to do... that night, was so that we could be together."

At this he turned away. "I know," he said, very quietly. They did not speak of this.

She forced a smile. "Heck, the only reason you aren't King is because I didn't want you to dump me."

He laughed; the awkward moment passed. "Oh, that's cute. And also a little pathetic."

"Yes. Yes it is." Her face softened. Nancora's temper was legendary, but it held a secret that only Alistair knew; it was just a cover. Her eyes started to water. "Alistair…. oh, Maker… should they?"

Alistair looked confused. "Should they what?"

"Kill us." she said. He didn't respond, and she wiped her eyes. "We were very selfish, weren't we? Have we really made a dark deal with an Old God? Damned the world? I don't…"

"There's no point in second guessing our choices now," he said. "I can't… well, there's just no way to know. We just have to live with it, and the only way to do that is for me to leave, now, and continue the ruse."

"Alistair." she said quietly, then met his eyes. "Don't you dare leave me. Not now, not after… well, all of it. It's just too much. Alistair, you're still…" She paused. "You're still a Grey Warden. I _need_ you in Amaranthine."

He smiled; she would try to appeal to his sense of duty, of all things. Unswayed, he bit his lip and gave her his best puppy dog eyes. "It won't be forever," he promised. "You go off and do your Warden-Commander thing at the Keep. For a few, I don't know... years. After a while, I figure everyone will have forgotten about me, because really, they always do, and I can come back and pretend to be a new recruit." His eyes twinkled. "I wonder if it's dangerous to do the Joining twice? I'll have to assume a new identity, of course. Perhaps invent an accent?"

Nancora crossed her arms and sighed. "I really don't think that will work, but I appreciate your effort to console me," she said. "I still think you are abandoning me forever, and I want to chop off you head."

"Please don't," he said. "I like my head, and you are clueless with an axe… you will just make a mess of it." She glared at him, not appreciating his levity. "You know I wouldn't do this if it weren't absolutely necessary."

Well, yes, she did know that, but it didn't make it hurt any less. So much of her life had been very empty, and joyless, and she had gone to great lengths, _extreme_ lengths, to preserve this one good thing, and now he was leaving, just like that, and she felt as though the darkspawn had won after all. She wanted to rage, and fight, and _win_, but at this moment she knew she could not. She had to let him go.

"Very well, Alistair," she said finally. He started to relax, but she held up a finger, and he froze. It was a very dangerous finger. "However. There's no way I'm letting you run off alone. For years? No, Alistair. It's much too dangerous and you are much too foolish. You'll need help."

Alistair drew back and looked around the camp. For a long time, they had traveled with a large group of varied companions, but now there were only two tents pitched beside the fire; there was only one other person in their party. "You can't be serious. What makes you think...?" Alistair frowned. "Why would he even agree? He swore an oath to you, not me. He doesn't even like me. Does he? I don't think he does."

"On the contrary," Nancora said, and she allowed herself to smile. "He thinks you are ridiculously awesome."

-o-

"So, the saucy minx has cast you out, has she?" Zevran said, the words slipping out of his mouth past a sly smile. He approached Alistair as the other man was packing outside their tent. As was the Antivan way, he came too close to Alistair for his Chantry sense of comfort. Unconsciously Alistair moved a step back from him.

"No... not exactly."

"Still, I am sad to learn that if you are no longer occupying the lady Surana's tent, that I will also be parting ways with the lovely Warden." Zevran smiled again. "But, such is life."

"Thank you, Zevran, as always," Alistair said, through gritted teeth, "for your tact and grace."

Zevran bowed, with flourish. Alistair wondered what it would be like to be Zevran, to treat life like a game and be spared the constant pain of it. In many ways, they were similar. Both had been sold into brutal service at a young age, both having lost their mothers in childbirth. Neither of them had a real home. But while Zevran was a leaf on the wind, content to be blown wherever it willed him, Alistair had desperately fought against that wind, and lost. How long had he waited in the Chantry, hoping that Eamon would come to take him back? How long had he been part of the Grey Wardens, finally finding himself among friends, before the order was obliterated at Ostagar? How long had he been allowed to enjoy his hard-won romance with Nancora before circumstance forced him to leave her?

If his luck continued in this manner, he would grow to truly enjoy Zevran's company just moments before the elf died tragically of syphilis.

"The lady would also like us to take her dog," Zevran said.

Nancora's mabari, his esteemed majesty Ser Poopier, trotted out from behind the slight elf. He seemed to smile at Alistair, and then, perhaps following Zevran's lead, he bowed.

"Aha. So where are the three of us headed?"

"Alas, she did not tell me," Zevran said. "Perhaps she is thinking that you will be telling me, no?"

"I don't really care, Zevran, honestly," Alistair said. "I just need to leave Ferelden. Do you have a preference?"

"If you are truly asking me, most certainly, I would like to return to Antiva," Zevran said. "It is nice there in the spring. But I thought perhaps you would like to go to the Anderfels? That is the home of your Grey Wardens, is it not?"

"Yes. So let's not go there," Alistair said. He stuffed an extra shirt into his backpack, and pulled the drawstring shut. He did not have very much to pack. "Look, we'll have to have a cover story. Wherever we're headed, I'm not supposed to be a Grey Warden."

"Ah, the plot thickens," Zevran said, his eyes lighting up. "Here, I have one. Perhaps you are a noble of the Bannorn, fleeing for his life. It seems all your silly jokes have finally annoyed a mob of peasants into a murderous rage. And I am your hapless servant, free to leave you but unable to picture a life without you. It is funny, but also sad. You could wear an amusing hat."

"Uh, hmm."

"You would be surprised," Zevran said. "The more interesting your story, the more absurd, the less it is questioned. You shall have to have a new name. How do you like Finley? Bann Finley? I shall be Arainan Zevrai, at your service."

"Finley... will be fine. Antiva is fine. Arainan Zevrai... that just sounds like your name flipped around, Zevran." Zevran shrugged. "And I'm not going to be a noble, and I'm certainly not going to be your master because that's just… weird. Can we just be, I don't know, mercenaries or something?" Zevran lifted his hands, as if to say, Eh, sure, I guess, if you want to be _boring_. "Right then. We should head out as soon as you're ready."

Zevran raised an eyebrow, and glanced over his shoulder at Nancora's tent. Formerly _their_ tent. Alistair gave it a hard look, imagining Nancora sulking inside. He imagined a few other things too, and then he looked away. "No, I don't want to say good-bye. There's nothing more to say."

Zevran laughed, a humorless, wicked laugh. "Don't be an _idiot_, Alistair," he said. Alistair looked at him blankly. Zevran sighed heavily. "Truly, I do not know how you manage to dress yourself in the morning. Look. What you have to do has nothing to do with _talking_." He paused, pointedly, without blinking. "Listen, Ferelden, if you do not go to that woman right now and give her something to remember you by, I will be forced to do it for you."

"But-"

"_Forced_. It would be such a grievously stupid error on your part, I would have no choice but to correct it." Zevran turned away from Alistair, and casually regarded his fingernails. "Now go, or I will continue to insult your manhood until you do."

Alistair hesitated. He did not like being told what to do by Zevran, and certainly not in _this_, but it did seem as though he had no choice. He opened his mouth a few times, trying to come up with a witty retort to make it seem less like this was Zevran's idea, trying just to say _something_, finally just saying, "Ah," and then, "Yes." And then he walked, too aware of Zevran's attention, to Nancora's tent.

-o-

Nancora had been crying. Her skin was delicate and pale, and it was always obvious when she got the least bit upset. But she was not crying any more; she looked exhausted, and was lying down, very still, on her bedroll. _She is so small_, Alistair thought. He had to remind himself sometimes that she was not as fragile as she looked. "Oh, Alistair," she said, confused, then happy, then confused again. "For a moment I thought you were going to leave without… saying good-bye." She sighed. "I'm glad you didn't."

Alistair cringed. He loved her, and she was his best friend, and the person he knew best in all the world, but he still had absolutely no idea what he was doing sometimes. "Of course," he said, smiling weakly. "How heartless do you think I am?"

She smiled. "Come here, you terrible liar, you."

Alistair paused, sputtered, said finally, "So you heard all that, did you?" She nodded, and shrugged, and looked at him with smokey eyes. Somehow his being a bumbling idiot never seemed to discourage her. He was reminded of Leliana telling him that his awkwardness was part of his charm. He could only hope. He settled down beside her, draped an arm over her chest, pulled her close, and kissed her. She kissed him back, warm, and hungry, and then pulled away.

"You should know," she said winkingly, "canvas? Not quite as soundproof as you clearly seem to think." He nodded, deciding not to care, leaning back towards her, wanting. She stopped him again, hand on his chest, flashing a playful smile. "Also? If there's a fire behind it, you can see right through it."

"Uh huh," he mumbled, grasping at her. Why had he thought he could leave without _this_? He kissed her again, but she held back, just a bit, waiting for something. _If there's a fire behind it, you can see right through it._ "Oh," he said.

"Yes," Nancora said. "Just so you know. It doesn't bother me, any more, but… just so you know."

Alistair examined the tent walls. He looked over and saw the glow of the fire, warm and diffuse through the canvas. "Huh," and then he considered the dark wall. Briefly he felt very exposed and embarrassed and _oh Maker is Zevran really watching us?_ but then he realized that this was not a new attribute of canvas, and so if it hadn't bothered him when they had been surrounded by a gaggle of very bored and gossipy companions, then he certainly wasn't going to let it bother him now. "Alright," he said. "Best do this right, then."

Nancora smiled. "That would be best, yes."


	2. The Sexy Pirate

The docks at Denerim were old, and muddy, and filled with dark alleys where bad things could happen. Alistair could not wait to be off. He had realized, as they made there way from camp to the city, that he had never in his life left Ferelden. At Redcliffe Castle, and then on their travels during the Blight, he had seen many things, and met people from every country in Thedas, but he had never left the country's borders himself. It was strange. He should have been scared, and sad, but he found that he was a little bit excited, in spite of himself.

"There is something I should tell you, perhaps, before we get on Isabela's ship," Zevran said.

Alistair looked at Zevran, surprised. The elf had been uncharacteristically quiet since they got to the docks, and now he seemed somewhat uncomfortable. This was not an emotion he had ever witnessed in him, in all their time together, so it might have been Alistair's imagination. "Yes…?"

"You are aware, I am sure, that Surana and I were romantically involved, very briefly."

Alistair cocked an eyebrow. "Yes, Zevran. I mean, Arainan. While I try not to think about it… ever... it was hard not to notice. You were very demonstrative, as I recall." He shuddered. "I think even Morrigan could hear you."

"What can I say." Zevran managed a smile. "At the time, you were playing coy, and the lady, she is very impatient. I was happy to be there for her while you were busy being Fereldan. She has very much energy, you are a lucky man, Finley."

"Um. Thanks."

"Anyway, what I am trying to say," Zevran said, and he paused and cleared his throat. "You see, during this time, we met Isabela. Perhaps you remember, she is very attractive, and we are old friends. She is also very adventurous, like your Nancora. And so, the three of us, we… well, you understand."

"No," Alistair said, looking puzzled. "I don't think I do….?"

"My friend," Zevran said. "I would rather not spell it out for you, but if you like, I can draw you a diagram."

"You… wait, really?" Alistair said. "Are you really telling me what I think you are telling me? That you, and Nancora, and this Isabela…?" Zevran nodded. This was not something that Alistair would ever want to know. Ever. Least of all when he about to be separated from his girlfriend by an ocean and hundreds of miles. "Why, Zevran? Why are you telling me this?"

"Arainan, please, Finley," Zevran said. He shrugged. "We are going to be traveling together for a time. I did not want it to be awkward."

"Oh, thanks ever so." Alistair said. "Mission not accomplished!"

Light footsteps and a polite "ahem" alerted them to a visitor in their midst. Ser Poopier, caught by surprise, jumped and started barking like an untrained puppy. Alistair and Zevran turned together to see Isabela, the captain of the _Siren's Call_. She was dressed in green leather armor that protected her mid section but little else. The leather propped up her assets quite… sturdily. _Don't think about it_, Alistair told himself. _Do not picture Nancora and Isabela doing… whatever. Don't_. She caught Alistair's glance, pouted, and winked at him. _Eyes on her face_, Alistair told himself.

"So it's Finley, I'm told" she said, "and my dear Arainan. Will it be Ari, then? Yes. Are you ready? My ship is this way." She looked at Alistair, her eyes drifting above his head, and she smiled. "Nice hat."

The three of them, and their dog, boarded the pirate ship, bound for Antiva.

-o-

Alistair was unaware that there was such a thing as a real live Sexy Pirate, outside of costumes one might see in a brothel, but now he found himself sailing with one. Once aboard, Isabela gave a few quick orders, and her small crew set to making the ship ready for departure. A mix of four men and two women, they moved quickly and with practice. She was a fairly successful pirate, Alistair gathered. From a distance, they could be mistaken for a military scout ship, or a trading vessel. Their sails were in good condition, their ropes tidy, and the sailors skilled. Once you got close, and spoke to them, however, their true profession became clear. Men and women both wore an excess of jewelry, and their language was colorful, to put it mildly.

"Hello soldier," one of the women, Hilda he thought, said to him as he leaned over to stow his backpack in the hold. His throat felt suddenly dry; why was he still so uncomfortable around women? "Andraste's barbecued tits, but that is a mighty fine aft you're hauling, blondie. I would jibe with that any time."

"What are- are you talking to me?" Alistair said, jumping away. "I don't… what?"

She laughed, and smiled at him.

"I have to say, I am happy to be leaving Ferelden," Zevran said, behind him.

"Gah! Stop sneaking up on me like that," Alistair said, jumping. "I should have you wear a bell or something."

Zevran laughed, nodding at Hilda. She blew Alistair a kiss, then took off up the stair, returning to work.

Alistair rolled his eyes. "Do we have to do this now? The fake names thing. Surely the crew knows who we are already."

"Isabela does, of course," Zevran said, "but most of the crew is new. Pirate crews are very fluid, you understand. We might as well try the ruse out on them, see how it fits."

"Fine, then. Arainan. Have you found out where we'll be quartered?"

"I have," Zevran said. "We are honored guests. Isabela has made room for us in her own cabin."

"Oh." Alistair paused. "I supposed that is very kind of her. It is not a large ship."

"No, it is not." Isabela said, appearing out of nowhere. It would be nice if she wore bells also, Alistair thought. "Of course you may sleep with the crew if you would prefer, but I think you will find the accommodations more satisfactory this way. It is your choice."

"I cannot speak for this one," Zevran said, "but I am very happy to share quarters with you, dear Isabela."

"I am not surprised, Ari," she said. "And you, Ser Finley? With us, or with the crew?"

Alistair looked like a firefly in the torchlight. To share a room with Zevran and an equally libidinous woman… or to sleep with the crew, a choice which would apparently put him at risk of some bad touching. "With you, I suppose. I'm very grateful." He shook his head. "And you know what? This is stupid. My name is Alistair. I'm not a spy, I'm just a bastard ex-templar Grey Warden on the lam. I'm not very good at these games."

The ship lurched forward. They had unhitched from their moorings. "Whatever you say," Isabela said. She looked at Zevran and purred. "Zev, if you like, I can show you where you can lie down."

"Right now?" Zevran asked. "Do you not have business to attend to? Captaining the ship?"

"My people know what they are about, and I want to make sure you are… comfortable." She smiled.

"Well then, lead on, you salty vixen," Zevran said. Isabela turned towards Alistair and opened her mouth- like a cobra about to strike, he thought- but before she could speak, Zevran said, "Oh no, Isabela. Not this one. He is Fereldan, and he will only be embarrassed by the question."

"Ah, I see," Isabela said. "Well then, Alistair. Should you ever find yourself more _worldly_, we'll be upstairs."

And the two of them trotted off, before Alistair could even find a snappy reply, to help himself feel less utterly impotent. They disappeared to the cabin, where they remained for several hours. No, he was definitely not that worldly, and he never thought that he would be that worldly, and furthermore, _Nancora_ was that… wordly? Alistair remained in the hold, unsure of what to do, perhaps hiding. And definitely trying not to think about Nancora in that mix.

-o-

Nancora met with the Grey Warden recruit, Mhairi, while traveling to Amaranthine. Immediately, she liked her. They fought well together; it did not hurt that she fought with a sword and shield, Alistair's preferred combination. She was young and eager, but also very skilled. There was trouble at Vigil's Keep, she said. _Of course there is_, Nancora thought. When they met darkspawn on the Pilgrim's Path, Nancora gave her a shield that Alistair had left behind.

When the darkspawn were dispatched, Mhairi paused to examine her new shield. "This belonged to… Arl Howe," Mhairi said, looking at the crest.

"Oh, yes," Nancora said. "Don't worry. He won't come looking for it."

Mhairi grunted. "Oh, I know," she said. "I've followed all your adventures. I'm very excited to be working with you, Ser Surana. You're… well, you know. The hero of Ferelden."

Nancora laughed. "I usually go by Nancora," she said. "Or just Nan."

"Once we get to the Keep, I think I'll change the design on this shield," Mhairi said, half to herself. "I don't think this crest is appropriate. I want it to have the Grey Warden griffon." She looked quickly at Nancora. "I mean, if that's okay with you."

"Of course," Nancora said. "I appreciate your enthusiasm, Mhairi. It's good to know I'll have someone I can trust at my side."

They fought their way through Keep, picking up an apostate mage named Anders. _It must be my perfume,_Nancora thinks. _It must be irresistible to all the lost souls of Ferelden. _Anders worried Nancora; she had bad luck with apostates. He was also very handsome, and funny, and more than a little bit flirtatious. She had to watch out for him, she thought.

Then they found Oghren. Oghren! Killing darkspawn with an axe, like nothing had changed, he _waved_ at her. She had to smile. Mhairi and Anders did not trust him, but how could they? He was not much of a conversationalist, and still three sheets to the wind most of the time, but he was good old Oghren and it felt comfortable to be back with an old friend.

"Warden, it is _good_ to see you," Oghren said, emphatically. "If I had an ale for every time I wished our party was back together again, heh, I would have a lot of ale. And then, let's be honest, soon I wouldn't." He paused, thinking about ale, then, "Where's Alistair?"

Nancora froze. Mhairi and Anders looked at her expectantly. "Oghren," she said carefully, heavily. "Alistair _died._ With the Archdemon. Remember?"

"What?" Oghren stammered, floored. "When? Think I would remember a thing like that."

"Would you?" Nancora asked pointedly. "I left you to guard the gate, remember, you weren't with us. And you did quite a bit of _celebrating_ afterwards. So maybe it escaped your notice." Nancora sighed, and she pulled on a deep reserve of sadness that was just below the surface, ready. She looked _sad_. "Trust me. He's gone."

"Huh." Oghren said, and he considered it. "Was wondering why Anora put his name on that statue."

"Yes, well, now you know."

She would speak to Oghren later, she thought. It would probably be a good idea to let him know he wasn't losing his mind. Maybe.

As they finished clearing out the Keep, they found an emissary, and he _spoke_ to them. With words. She would have been less surprised if Ser Poopier had started speaking to her, but after her initial surprise she gathered herself, and they dispatched him soon enough.

They found Varel, the Seneschal of Vigil's Keep. All the Orlesian Wardens were dead, which was on the grand scale, truly horrible, but Nancora was ashamed to admit she was a little relieved. She would not have to lie about the Archdemon, not soon, anyway. Varel knew how to prepare a Joining. This was good; Nancora could rebuild the order, start over, and maybe one day Alistair could come back just like they had planned. The darkspawn were talking, sure, and that was profoundly creepy, but in the end they were just darkspawn, and she was the expert on killing _those._ No problem.

He also said he knew of only one Grey Warden serving in Ferelden. This was technically true, as Alistair was surely in open water by now. But it also meant that the Orlesian Wardens had not suspected anything, and they were safe. She exhaled, and began to relax a little and think maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay.

And then Mhairi died during her Joining.

Nancora realized that everything was _not_ going to be okay, Alistair was _gone, _and she had never felt so alone.


	3. Call it Your Grave

**AN**: With all due respect to Mutant Enemy, and stuff.

* * *

"We have found this ruined temple, and we shall call it… Ruined Temple."

Alistair was hiding in the hold again. While he was traveling with Nancora he knew, despite his own joking to the contrary, that he was useful. He knew something about darkspawn, and he could handle himself in a fight, and he was proud of that. He knew _nothing_ about sailing. Being on the water made him sick to his stomach, and he was not good at waiting.

So he was playing with his toys.

He held his Stone Dragon, shook it, said in his growling dragon voice, "I think we will call it _your grave_!"

The Onyx Demon statue had an Antivan accent. "Oh no, it is the risen Andraste! I've wet myself!"

"What have I done?" said the Robed Woman statue, in his best falsetto. "Why in the Maker's name did I hit that gong?"

"Don't worry, my dear," the shield-bearing Stone Warrior said, and for some reason the Stone Warrior's voice was deeper than his own. "I am fearless and also very manly, and I will slay this dragon."

Stone Dragon: "You can try!"

Whereby the Stone Dragon and the Stone Warrior commenced an epic battle in his hands. There was much smashing and _grrrr_-ing, with the Stone Warrior repeatedly jumping on the Stone Dragon's stony head. Stone Dragon flipped about violently, and the Stone Warrior flew off his head. Onyx Demon approached from behind and said, "Backstab! Backstab!" and the Stone Dragon kicked him, and he was down.

"Too bad! You are very weak, and also very short and your accent is stupid!" the Dragon declared, and then he turned toward the Robed Woman and he said, "Pew! Pew!"

And the Robed Woman said, "Oh no! Fire! Ah! Save me, somebody, please!"

And the Stone Warrior got up, and he said, "Don't worry, I'll save you," and Alistair scootched the Stone Warrior in between the Stone Dragon and the Robed Woman, and he said, "Aaah! It burns! Oh no wait, it _doesn't_, because I am wearing armor made out of your _boyfriend_ and I'm going to kick your ass! Hahahaha!"

And then the Stone Warrior smashed into the Stone Dragon and Alistair said, "Hiyah! Hiyah! Take that!" and then in the Dragon's voice, "Oh my goodness you've chopped off my head this is terrible ah ah ah… bleargh." A protracted death rattle.

"Oh Alistair, thank goodness, you saved me," the Robed Woman said. "Kiss me, Alistair, kiss me."

"But what about…"

"Oh, don't worry, Zevran was completely useless and I am totally over him."

Alistair said, "Mwah mwah mwah," and smooshed the Robed Woman and the Stone Warrior together, and strangely the smooshing was kind of violent and not unlike the epic battle that had occurred earlier. They were just small statues, after all, and not very articulated.

"That is not exactly how _I _remember it," said Zevran.

Alistair jumped and dropped his statues, who might have been just as embarrassed as he was, compromised as they were. "Stop _doing_ that!"

Zevran smirked. "As I recall, you got sacked by the dragon halfway through the fight, and it was Sten who had the killing blow." He picked up the fallen Onyx Demon statue, and moved it further from the Dragon. "I remained at a distance, with my bow. Backstabbing a dragon is dangerous."

Alistair harrumphed. "What are you doing down here? I haven't seen you or Isabela," with your clothes on, "erm, out of her cabin, since we got on this ship. Where is she?"

"There is an Orlesian merchant ship sailing north-northeast of our position," Zevran explained. "Isabela is preparing to intercept her."

"Huh?" Alistair said. "What is she going to do, buy a rug?"

Zevran sighed. "This is a pirate ship, Alistair. She's going to be a pirate."

"Oh," Alistair said, and he gulped. "What… what are _we_ supposed to do?"

"I don't know about you," Zevran said, and he clapped his hands together a little giddily, "but _I_ am going to be a pirate. It is a childhood fantasy of mine, and I admit I am more than a little excited."

"You… of course." Alistair said, "You're going to be a pirate now. I suppose I'm expected to be a pirate as well, then?"

"Oh, no, Alistair. Please, by all means, keep to your moral high ground," Zevran said, his constant tone of mocking firmly in place. "But I felt I should warn you. You may want to arm yourself, just in case."

Zevran skipped back up the stairs. Alistair picked up his little statues. Nancora had given them to him, indulging his strange quirks as she did everyone in the party. She seemed to understand him, he thought. He wished he understood her. Putting the statues back in his pack, he pulled out his Tevinter sword. It wasn't his favorite, but the Keening Blade, with it's strange wailing, would have drawn too much attention. He hadn't been able to bring any armor, and that bothered him, but where was he going to stow a set of heavy plate? He had brought Duncan's shield, however; he wasn't about to part with that.

He removed it from the pack and slung his sword over his back and the shield on his arm, then settled uneasily on his heels. Should he go upstairs? Stay down here? It _did_ upset his moral sensibilities to be so close to plunder and murder, but he did not think there was anything he could do about it.

The ship lurched to a halt, pitched to the side. Shouting. He heard feet thudding heavily onto the deck about him, ominous. Sounds of a struggle. He paced nervously. What if one of the merchants fled down here? What was he supposed to do? Kill him? Protect him? Not for the first time, Alistair wished he was back fighting darkspawn, where everything made sense.

Footsteps on the stairs. Alistair tensed, but did not draw his sword. _Maybe I can just bash him with my shield and knock him out,_ he thought. He prayed for forgiveness and waited. The footsteps became a person, running, but it was not a merchant. It was a knight, burly, dressed head to toe in massive silverite armor. There was a florid crest on his chest; Alistair recognized it suddenly. Orlais. This man was a chevalier.

The chevalier saw him and raised a gleaming sword. "Por l'Empératrice!" he shouted, and charged headlong at Alistair.

"Sweet sons of Andraste!" Alistair squealed, and ducked behind his shield. He had never felt so _naked. _The chevalier's sword connected with his shield, hard, and his arm shook down to his bones. He struggled with the sword on his back, as the soldier attacked, fast. _Pull yourself together_, he thought angrily at himself, and wrested the sword free. The sword had a nasty, saw-toothed edge, and its appearance startled the chevalier for a moment. _Good_. If Alistair didn't end this fight quickly, other chevaliers would surely join in, and he would lose, and he would die. He took advantage of the moment and charged into the chevalier with his shield, knocking him down. When he was on the ground, Alistair started hacking, brutally, all instinct. This, he knew how to do_. _The chevalier was well equipped, and he was no green soldier, but he was expecting to fight startled pirates, not a Grey Warden. He died, and quickly.

Alistair stood up, relaxed for a moment, and wiped blood off his brow. Why were chevaliers on a merchant ship? He didn't have time to wonder. He looked longingly at the chevalier's armor, but he knew he couldn't risk it. Zevran and Isabela were still alive upstairs- he hoped they were alive anyway- and he didn't want them to mistake him for the enemy. Knowing them, he would be dead before he even knew they were there.

He bounded up the steps to the deck, two at a time, and saw a picture of complete chaos. _This is bad, this is really bad_, he thought, and looked around for Zevran or Isabela. He did not find them, but he saw Ser Poopier, the dog, charging after a chevalier. He pounced on the soldier, knocking him to the ground, and making short work of his jugular. The dog was covered in blood, a snarling mass of fangs and sharpened claws. Two chevalier flanked him, and Alistair thought frantically, _Nancora is going to kill me if I lose her dog_. He rushed towards the mabari but he wouldn't make it in time. He felt a sick feeling in his gut. The chevaliers raised their swords.

And then Zevran and Isabela appeared as if from thin air, and the chevaliers were quickly eviscerated.

"Nice work," Alistair said, coming up beside them, eyeing the mangled bodies. "And also… _yuck_."

"Ah, there you are, Warden," Zevran said, wiping his blades, his face brightening. "I was starting to think you'd lost your courage. Are you ready to be my meat shield?"

"Argh, Zevran, I'm practically in my _pajamas,_" Alistair said, gesturing at his civilian clothes.

Zevran shrugged. "The dog, he is naked, and you see he is not afraid."

Ser Poopier barked, proudly.

"Well then, I won't be shamed by the dog," Alistair grunted. "Let's go."

The four of them made short work of the remaining Orlesians. Alistair and the dog distracted them, shouting and snarling and barking and flashing silverite and teeth, while Zevran and Isabela would slip around behind them and slit their throats. It was like a dance, but not the embarrassing kind; Alistair knew the steps, even though he wasn't dressed for it. One chevalier slipped past them, and Alistair calmly brained him with his shield and then cut off his head. Isabela gasped, and pointed towards the starboard side of the deck. "By the gods, watch out! He's _casting._" She had been fierce and unflustered among the hordes of knights, but now her color drained. A _mage._

Zevran laughed. "Alistair?"

Alistair nodded and gathered his thoughts. He reached out with his mind and threw his will at the mage, knocking him down and disrupting his smell. He heard the mage shriek, gaze around wildly, confused, and felt his mana drain. You don't expect to find _templars_ on a pirate ship. Before the mage could even stand, Ser Poopier was on him, tearing at him with his claws, his teeth, shredding his robes and then his flesh, until he was stopped struggling. The dog withdrew, and Zevran shot him with an arrow, once, for good measure.

Isabela looked at Zevran, and then at Alistair, and then she inched towards the dead mage. "Huh," she said. "That was pretty cool."

Zevran smiled and looked at Alistair. "Sometimes you are so silly, I forget how _scary_ you really are."

Alistair laughed, smiled, said, "Likewise." Alistair had to fight back an almost overwhelming urge to high-five Zevran. _You look really cool right now,_ he thought to himself, _so don't blow it. _He realized that he had been wallowing in self-pity since he left Denerim, and it felt really, really _good_ to be useful again.

The dog barked, approving.

The euphoria that hung in the air after a good fight was sweet, and intoxicating, but it quickly faded. "My crew," Isabela said suddenly. She looked around. "Are we the only ones left?"

They were. The bodies of the pirates were mixed in with the chevaliers, all equally still. Alistair felt helpless again, and his heart sank. "What happened?" he asked. "Why were there chevaliers on a merchant ship?"

"I don't think it was a merchant ship, after all," she said, and she nudged a dead knight with her toe. "I think they were a military vessel posing as a merchant ship."

"Why would they- you don't think…?" Alistair stumbled, looking from Isabela to Zevran. "Is Orlais… attacking?"

"Perhaps," Isabela said. "The armies of Ferelden are in tatters from the Blight. If Orlais was waiting for the opportune moment to reclaim their empire, this would be it."

"No," Alistair said. "It can't be. Was… was Loghain _right? _Orlais is planning to invade Ferelden again?" He shook his head. "Maker, no…"

"It appears that way," Zevran said. He looked at Isabela, and the two foreigners shared a shrug. He said, "My sympathies to you, Ferelden."

"Where were they headed, do you think?" Alistair asked Isabela. "To Denerim?"

"No," she said, frowning. "I think this ship was headed to the port at Amaranthine. That was their old docking point, wasn't it?" She _tsk_-ed. "Not very creative."

_Amaranthine._ His jaw dropped, and Alistair felt dizzy. Nancora was in Amaranthine, surrounded by Orlesian Wardens. Would they be loyal to their order, or to their country? He could not even guess.

Zevran met his gaze and said, "She's strong, Alistair. She killed an archdemon. Be assured a few chevaliers are not going to get the better of her." But the elf did not seem quite convinced of this.

"We have to warn her," Alistair said, firmly. "I don't know how, but we have to tell her. Zevran, an _army_ is coming for her. What are we going to do?"

Isabela thought for a moment. "The four of us are good in a fight," she said, musing, "but we can't man this ship on our own. We're not going to make it to Antiva. I can take you to Amaranthine, try to pick up a new crew. But you'll have to help with the sails." She sighed. "Even you, hound."

The mabari whimpered, and ran around in a circle.

Alistair eyed the Orlesian merchant vessel, then asked Isabela, "Can we take _that_ ship?"

Isabela laughed. "I was thinking the same thing," she said. "but I didn't expect you to notice. It looks like it would be easier to man. Why, what were you thinking?"

"I'm thinking," Alistair said, "that an Orlesian ship might become useful in the near future."

Isabela ducked into her cabin. After a moment, she came out with two cans of oil. "Get your things and take them over to the new ship," she said, and she started dumping the oil over the scattered bodies unceremoniously. "I want to be quit of this deck as soon as possible." She paused over the body of one of her crew. She tilted her head and considered him. "Before we draw flies."

"Wait, are you serious?" Alistair asked. "You're going to set your own ship on fire?"

She scowled at him. "Well it's not much use to me any more, is it?" she asked crossly. "Might as well give the old girl a proper sending."

Alistair nodded, and jumped down the steps to the hold, grabbing his pack, making sure he did not leave behind any of his treasured statues. Then he ran back up and found the body of the captain of the chevaliers, who was wearing a decent set of silverite plate, and he took the armor for himself. Isabela crossed her arms, irritated, but he did not want to be caught unprepared again. She and Zevran, quick as always, had already hopped over to the other ship. Alistair, lugging his pack and his new armor awkwardly, followed them with less grace. Ser Poopier jumped after him.

"Are you done?" she asked impatiently, as if he had just taken seven hours to do his hair. He nodded, and she jumped onto the center mast and hoisted the sails. Then the Orlesian ship pulled away from the _Siren's Call, _slowly at first and then gaining speed.

When they had put some distance between them, Isabela nodded at Zevran, and Zevran lifted his bow, cocked a flaming arrow, and shot it at the well-oiled ship. It burst suddenly into flame, and they watched it as they sailed off. It was a sturdy ship, and it would take a long time to burn completely; it was still afloat when it became too small to see. Still, the ship that Isabela had called home for several years would soon be only ash. She seemed genuinely sad about it, but only for a moment, and then she started giving orders.

As always, Alistair was comfortable following directions, and he found he took to sailing easily. His hands were steady, but his mind was racing. He felt his heart soaring, despite himself; he might be seeing Nancora a lot sooner than he had planned.


	4. The Scarf

Nancora had found a scarf. It was strange, to be doing this again. Acquiring companions, gaining their trust, giving them things. Thank Andraste that none of the others had died during their Joinings. Varel said she was lucky, keeping so many recruits, that she had defied the odds. She shuddered. Mhairi's eyes glazing over, life draining away as Nancora watched, helpless, was an image she would never shake. She did not feel lucky.

But, this scarf. She was not sure who would like it. She thought Alistair would like it. She did not want to think about him. Was he okay? Was Zevran keeping him out of trouble? Was Zevran getting him _into _trouble? She sighed.

"Anders," she said, "Do you want this scarf?"

"Scarf?" Anders said. "Why do you think I need a scarf? Do I have a hickey?"

She scowled. "No," she said. "Why would you have a hickey?"

"No reason." He smiled, and took the scarf from her. "Thanks for the scarf."

They were in the chapel in Amaranthine. She had just met Wynne outside, and breath caught in her throat. Wynne knew. Wynne was her friend, maybe, but perhaps she resented her for not returning to the Circle, for not ending things with Alistair as she'd requested, for using up all her lyrium potions, for _anything_. Wynne could ruin everything. Nancora hadn't taken a breath during their whole conversation. But Wynne had wanted to talk about Circle business, and she hadn't even mentioned Alistair, and Nancora felt profoundly stupid. She was not good with secrets.

"Anders," she said. "Are you… I'm sorry, but I have to do this. Are you trying to tell me something? Are you… _involved _with someone?" She thought about their party. "Velanna, maybe? I can't really picture it, but-"

Anders laughed. "What? No, of course not."

"Oh," Nancora said, and she sighed. "It's just that I should know. It affects us as a group, and I'm your commander."

Anders shook his head. "No, Commander. I was just fooling with you."

"Okay, then. Ha ha."

Anders gave her an impish grin. "Are _you _involved with someone?"

"Anders, that's… yes. I mean, no, not anymore," Nancora said quickly. _I am not good at this_. "He's dead." Gone, anyway.

"Andraste, I'm so sorry, I forgot," Anders said, looking abashed. "Wow. I'm an idiot."

They were very quiet for a moment, and it was deeply awkward.

Anders cleared his throat. "His name was Alistair, right?"

"Yes. Hey, listen, it's… okay. It's part of the job." He looked at her like he didn't know what she was talking about. She said, "Part of being a Warden. We have to make a lot of sacrifices, a lot of hard choices. You're one of us now, and you should know that." Her voice grew quiet. "We didn't."

His eyes softened. And he put a hand on her arm. It felt very _warm_. "Do you want to talk about it? You must feel very isolated, being in charge all the time." She glared at him, and he removed his hand. "Forgive me, that was presumptuous."

"Yes, it was. And yes, I do." She shrugged. "You don't really treat me like a Commander though. Which is fine, I sincerely don't want you to."

He laughed. "I don't even know what that means," he said. "So let's talk. What was he like, this Alistair? Was he the love of your life?"

Nancora glanced around. Nathaniel, Renden Howe's strange son, and Oghren were standing by the altar, talking. From the look of it, Nathaniel was very sincerely trying to explain the finer points of the Chant to the dwarf. Oghren, meanwhile, was pretending to listen while trying to steal a glance up one of the Sister's robes. Nancora rolled her eyes and smiled.

"That bad, huh?" Anders said.

"What? Oh, hmm. The love of my life?" Nancora said. "I'm not sure what that means. I loved him. Very, very much. But I grew up in the Circle, I have not lived much yet."

Anders frowned. "The Circle," he said, thinking. "It's funny, but I don't remember you. You'd think I would, pretty girl like you. Somehow, I don't think we ever met."

"No, I don't think we did," Nancora said. "Probably because you specialized in healing magic."

"Why, what did you specialize in?"

She spread her hands and smiled. "Exploding things."

"Ah." Anders said. "Well, I like that too."

"But what was he like?" she said, looking away. Anders' smile was becoming very familiar. "Well, he was…" He was _Alistair_. She had never tried to describe him, and she found the memory of him was already growing a little fuzzy. "He was very handsome. But also kind of a dork. He liked cheese."

"He was kind of a dork, and he liked cheese." Anders said. "This is what you remember?"

Nancora scoffed. "He had a smart mouth," she said, punching him in the arm. "Kinda like someone else I know."

"Ouch! Did you punch him a lot, too?" Anders said, faking pain, rubbing his arm. "Sounds like we had a lot in common. Maybe I would have liked this guy."

"Probably not," Nancora said, smiling again. "He was a templar. Well, sort of."

Anders stopped, raised an eyebrow. "Uh huh. A mage and a templar. I won't ask."

"You will, but I won't tell you."

Anders smiled. He was also very handsome, Nancora had to admit, and almost uncomfortably her type. Anders asked, "So… have you ever been with a mage?"

Nancora gasped. "Anders, you are _very _presumptuous. I am your commander." She furrowed her brow. "Also, stop flirting with me when we are were just talking about my dead boyfriend. It's gauche."

He shrugged. "So don't answer."

She sighed, looked at Oghren and Nathaniel again, looked back. "No," she said finally. "I've only been with one other man, before Alistair. An Antivan Crow. He was a scoundrel, and very exotic. Another one of my crew."

"So you have made a habit of this? Sleeping with your underlings?" Anders asked, raising an eyebrow. "Consider this information filed for future reference." He paused. "Because, you know… it's different with a mage."

"Oh?" she said, trying very hard not to smile. Failing a little. "How so?"

He spread his hands and said, "Exploding things."

She laughed. He smiled, too suggestively, and she said, "I'll have to take your word for it."

_Probably_, she thought wickedly, and then quickly squashed that thought.


	5. Bad News

**AN**: Thanks to my husband for beta reading, and also for not becoming too jealous over my love of polygons.

* * *

...

Amaranthine was not as beautiful as its elegant name had led her to believe, but it was nice enough, as Ferelden cities were. Being responsible for such pedestrian things as trade relations was new to Nancora, and she struggled with it. It was almost a relief to deal with darkspawn, but some things still needed to be done.

With Oghren, Anders and Nathaniel behind her, she sought out Kendrick, her contact with the Merchant's Guild. He was a personable man, portly, and grateful for her attention. It was much easier to talk to him than to try and reason with the uptight nobles, as Varel demanded. "How are things, Kendrick?" she asked. "I retrieved the silks you requested from the Wending Woods. Phew. Glad I can cross hunting for luxury textiles off my Warden-Commander to-do list."

"The task just may've been beneath you," Kendrick said, smiling, "Still, the tailor will be pleased, _and_ I have even better news." He rubbed his hands together. "I have word from a reliable source that a great threat to trade has been eliminated. Ships will make sail more easily across the Waking Sea now. Excellent news."

"Oh?" Nancora said, curious. "What threat was that?"

"The pirate Isabela," Kendrick told her. Nancora froze, as if stabbed. That name had a lot of baggage for her. Kendrick didn't notice. "A trader coming from the Free Marches reported seeing the _Siren's Call_ on fire in the strait. The deck was covered with bodies, says he, no survivors." The fat man sighed happily. "I don't know what happened, but this is wonderful news. I can't tell you how much trade I've lost to that corsair wench. Prosperous times ahead for your arling, you can be sure o' that."

Nancora felt her throat closing in, and she could not breath. The _Siren's Call. _Alistair had been on that ship.

_Covered with bodies. No survivors._

The words rang in her head like a dirge, and she became dizzy, weaving. Nathaniel, behind her, grabbed her shoulders, to steady her. "Are you alright, Commander?"

_I don't have to lie anymore, _she thought dully. _He's really dead. _She looked at Nathaniel, who was steady, respectful, and uncurious. She took a moment. "I'm not sure," she said quietly. "I must have… I must have been hit harder than I thought back there. Ugh." She held her head dramatically.

"We should get you back to the Keep," Anders said, taking her other arm. "You look like you need to lie down."

_Maker, yes. _She blinked, looking from Nathaniel to Anders. "Thank you," she said, and she let them take her home. She did not even remember the journey. _Alistair._ She could not let herself cry. Stumbled along beside her companions, she was in a fog. Zevran. Her poor, sweet dog. She could not think about it.

Velanna took her to her room, and helped her undress, put her to bed. "That genlock rogue cut you," she said. "Perhaps his blade was poisoned."

Nancora looked into Velanna's eyes. She felt a certain kinship with the other elf mage, and considered confiding in her, but she held back. It would do no good. "Maybe," she said. "I just need to sleep."

Velanna nodded. "Be well, my friend," she said, and left.

Then Nancora was alone. She rolled over on her side, staring at the cold granite wall, and wept.

Alistair was _dead._

-o-

Alistair was _asleep. _Sailing a ship was nowhere near as difficult as it had looked from the sidelines, but was a lot of manual labor, using different muscles than the bashing and slashing ones with which he was more familiar. He ached all over. With just the three of them, and a dog, Alistair now had his own room, and he spent as much time as he could in bed, deep in the Fade.

He heard Isabela calling his name. _Five more minutes._ She called again, more insistent. Damn it. He rolled off his bunk and followed her voice.

Her spyglass to her eye, Isabela stood on the bow. Zevran paced behind her on the deck, his nervous energy making Alistair jumpy. Isabela glanced at Alistair, said, "Good, you're up," and then she looked back through her spyglass, very still for what seemed like a long time, then she dropped the instrument to her side and said frankly, "There is fighting in the city."

"What?" Alistair demanded. "Is it the chevaliers?"

Before he could do anything, Zevran took the spyglass from the captain and looked through it. "No," he said, and chuckled. "It is only some bandits. Not to worry." Alistair tried to grab the spyglass from Zevran, but the nimble assassin skipped away, smiling. "Aha! And our lady Surana has arrived. Praise the Maker, but that woman is a fox in the hen house. They have no _idea _what they are up against." He laughed, then flinched, said, "Ooh! Good one, Nan!"

Alistair grabbed at the spyglass again, futilely. Zevran scurried up the mast, out of his reach. "Let me _see,_" Alistair insisted. "Is she okay?"

Zevran looked away from the city, down at Alistair, and said, "Alistair. Be assured. You know that she has won many more difficult battles, many times before."

_But I'm not with her this time,_ he thought vainly, but did not say it. He fought back a strange, surging feeling of jealousy. "Is she alone?" he asked finally.

Zevran put the glass back to his eye. "No. My friend, you will not believe this, but she is with our Oghren." Zevran sighed, reminiscing. "And a squirrelly looking fellow. And… a man in a dress?"

At this, Zevran climbed back down the mast, and handed the spyglass to Alistair, grinning impishly. Alistair quickly put it to his eye. He looked around, searching for her. It was not hard to find her; a storm of smoke and and dust and blood surrounded her and her new party. "It's not a dress," Alistair said, frowning. "It's a robe. He's a mage." He caught his breath as a bandit dove desperately past Oghren and swung his sword at her, connecting. She fell, _hard. "_Maker's breath, Nan is down!" He felt his chest tightening. The squirrelly guy stabbed the bandit in the back, killing him, but Nancora lay still on the ground. Then the mage went to her, and he held her in his arms, _too close, _and a swirl of blue magic surrounded them, and she stood up.

Alistair watched, silent, as the mage took her hand, and pulled her from the ground. She brushed the dirt off her robes with her other hand, but the one hand remained easily in the mage's. From this distance he could not see well, but he saw her turn to him, say something maybe. Alistair was still, his body tensing, and it was Zevran's turn to be nervous. "What is happening?" he asked, trying to sound casual, but failing a little. "Is the lady okay? Alistair?"

Alistair gave the spyglass back to Zevran and said, "She's fine. The mage healed her." And he exhaled. He should know better than to spy on her through a telescope. Surely, it was nothing. But… he looked at Isabela and asked a little anxiously, "When can we get to shore?"

"I'm not bringing the ship in when there's fighting in the city," she said. Alistair's fists clenched, and he opened his mouth to say something, but she shrugged and said, "I'm sorry, but I won't. Those men were smugglers… I knew them. It's not a good place for a pirate right now. We'll bring her in when it's clear."

"Fine," Alistair said, and his voice was strained. "Let me know when you need me. I'll be in the hold." Sulking.

-o-

The four of them walked back to the Keep, not talking. Nathaniel was not much of a talker. Oghren was very drunk, and singing softly to himself. And Anders was… well… she had to be careful with him. He was becoming a bit _familiar._

"Thanks for taking care of me, back there," Nancora said quickly. She avoided his eyes.

Anders flashed a smile, that kind of smile men have when they are feeling _hopeful, _and her heart fluttered. _Rebound. _She remembered Leliana explaining the concept to her, when she had moved so quickly from Zevran to Alistair, but that had not been the case then. Zevran was wild, and fun- really fun- but she had been waiting for Alistair. She had been waiting her whole life for Alistair, it seemed. And then Alistair had to go off and die alone, on the sea, and _rebound _was definitely what was happening here.

"My pleasure," he said, with _that_ smile.

She stepped back. Why did she let him hold her hand in Amaranthine? "I need to rest," she said quickly, and retreated into her thoughts.

-o-

Isabela named the Orlesian ship the _Spoony Bard. _When Alistair had asked her what "spoony" meant, she smiled knowingly and said, "Flirtacious and silly, like an Orlesian." He laughed and told her about Leliana, and Isabela said that, yes, she sounded like a very spoony bard. When this _Spoony Bard_ docked in Amaranthine, Isabela went ashore to seek new crew members, leaving Alistair and Zevran to guard the ship.

Zevran looked at Alistair expectantly. "What now, Warden?" he asked.

"We send Ser Poopier to Nancora, with a note," Alistair said. The dog looked at them, and whined. "We have to warn her about the Orlesians."

"Yes, yes, of course," Zevran said, waving his hand impatiently, "but after that?" When Alistair did not answer, Zevran sighed, exasperated, and said, "My friend, I know you are allergic to leadership, but I am under Surana's strict instruction to follow and protect you, so you must play your part. When Isabela returns, what shall we do then?"

Alistair considered this, looking at the slippery little Crow. Nancora inspired such loyalty, even in him. He said, "We should go across the Waking Sea, to Val Royeaux."

Zevran raised his eyebrows, considering this for a moment, and then nodded. "You will have to convince Isabela," he said, "but it should not be very hard. There are riches in the waters of Orlais, just as there are in Antiva."

"I'll write the note," Alistair said, and he retrieved vellum, quill, and ink from the desk in Isabela's cabin. He had been thinking about what he wanted to write to her for some time; now he sat down at the desk and wrote.

_Dear Nancora,_

_I saw you in Amaranthine today, but you probably did not see me because you were busy killing stuff. I see you have some new companions. You seem to be getting along well, with them. Especially the mage. I love you and you are very pretty. Have I told you that yet?_

He quickly scratched out that last sentence, leaving an inky smear on the paper.

_You won't believe this, but I think Orlais is invading. We found chevalier posing as merchants and they tried to kill us! Luckily they didn't because we are awesome. Isabela thinks they were heading to Amaranthine, so please, watch out._

_Yours always,_

_(I'm not just saying it, I really mean it)_

_Alistair_

"What are you doing?" Zevran asked, looking over his shoulder at the note.

"Nothing. Writing Nancora a letter," and Alistair covered the note with his hand futilely. "Stop reading, it's private."

Zevran rolled his eyes. "You would be the worst spy _ever,_" he said. "That is exactly the thing, you see, it's _not_ private. This message is being carried by a _dog_. A very capable dog, of course, but still, it could be intercepted. What if some Orlesian spies found this? The message would never reach her." He sighed heavily. "Also, you are supposed to be dead, and dead men can't sign letters with their real names. Real names that they foolishly insist on using. You have to be more, how to say, discreet." He snatched the note from Alistair and tore it up, before he could stop him, then he grabbed another piece of velum and wrote:

_NS,_

_It seems the old soldier may not have been so paranoid after all. Kin of our singing red-headed friend may be visiting you, in large number, on their way south. Take care. I am off to Val Royeaux, if you can get away, you should join me._

_-Z_

"There," he said.

Alistair looked at it askance. "Are you sure she'll understand that?" he asked.

"Of course," Zevran said. "The lady Surana, she is not stupid. Now give it to the dog, so he can be on his way."

Alistair sighed. He took the note back and wrote, at the bottom,

_P.S. I miss you_

Then he handed the note to Ser Poopier, who barked at Alistair, happily. "Yes, you get to go back to Nancora," Alistair said, rubbing the back of the dog's neck, in the thick muscles under the collar, where he knew it always itched. "Aren't you a lucky dog? Say hi to her for me, okay?"

The dog whined, and looked at Alistair with sad eyes. "No, I'll be back someday. I'm just leaving for now. Important heroics to accomplish, you understand. Tell her that for me, okay?" The dog barked uncertainly. "And you bite that mage if he tries anything. I'm not even joking." At this Ser Poopier yipped happily, and jumped into Alistair, pushing his head into his hand. Alistair gave the dog one last friendly pat, and then he sent Ser Poopier on his way, and the dog took off, seeking his master.


	6. The Bann of Waking Sea

The other ship was just a dark blot on the horizon, its twin sails single brush strokes against the sky, but it had hovered there for hours, following them like a shadow. Isabela stood on bridge, looking at the open sea behind them with her spyglass. "They're gaining on us," she said at last.

"Who are they?" Alistair asked, squinting into the distance.

She shook her head. "I don't recognize the ship," she said, "but it looks Fereldan."

"Are you sure?" he asked. They had passed West Hills a week ago, and were now sailing in Orlesian waters.

She shrugged. "Appearances can be deceiving," she said. "We look Orlesian, after all. But it's not a merchant ship. Hold is too small." She sucked air through her teeth, adding, "It's built for speed."

"Why are they chasing you?"

"Me?" she asked, laughing. She collapsed her spy glass and lowered it to her side. "Are you so sure they aren't chasing _you_? Or Zevran? You both have at least as many enemies as I do." She stepped down from the bridge and turned to him, said, "I don't know what they're after, but we'd best prepare for battle."

"We can't outrun them?"

She shook her head, and ducked into the cabin. Heading to the hold, Alistair found his chevalier armor and put it on. The armor was bulky, built for appearance as much as function, in the Orlesian way, and it had a full helmet, which was not his preference, but it would have to do. He picked up his sword and shield, and headed back to the deck. He would prefer not to have to fight his countrymen, but he would if it came to that. He was not prepared to die for real.

Zevran laughed when he saw him. "I think I prefer the hat," he said.

"How long do we have?" Alistair asked, ignoring him. His voice echoed uncomfortably in the helmet.

"The wind is favoring them now," Isabela said. "They're gaining fast. Two hours, at the outside."

It was a long two hours. Isabela had picked up four new sailors in Amaranthine, all men, and Alistair did not know them very well. They seemed nervous, and he wondered if he could count on them in the coming fight. Tensing, they all watched the ship approach. Zevran disappeared up the main mast into the crow's nest, his bow in hand. Alistair paced uneasily, waiting, gripping his sword. As the minutes ticked by, the blot grew, looming in the distance.

When the ship came into range, Zevran let loose an arrow. It sped out of his bow and buried itself in an enemy's raised shield with a loud _shunk. _He fired another, and another, and then an archer in the other ship returned fire. Arrows whistled in the air around them. Alistair ducked behind his shield.

Then the boat shook, and the Fereldan ship slammed against Isabela's. The sailors of the other ship rushed forward, clambering aboard. No, not sailors, Alistair thought. They were equipped like soldiers or mercenaries. He counted four men and one woman. He grunted. At least Isabela had the advantage of numbers. Strange that they had pursued the fight so aggressively, he thought.

Isabela's men crushed into the boarding party. One of the soldiers came at him, sword drawn, and Alistair leaned into his shield and knocked him to the ground. The man went down easily. They were soldiers all right, but not elite ones. He surveyed the rest of the fight quickly. Leading the Fereldans was a woman in light armor, armed with sword and dagger. She screamed an unintelligible battle cry and jumped into the fray. Isabela disappeared into the battle, and then reappeared in front of one of the soldiers, stunning him with a kick to the groin and then with a slice of her dagger he was out of the fight. Then she wheeled on their leader.

The Fereldan woman was quick and enthusiastic, but she was undermanned and losing ground fast. After pursuing them with such vigor for so long, it was clear that the attack had been ill advised. She had a long face, wide eyes and short brown hair done in knots, like an elf. Alistair blinked when he realized that he recognized her: Alfstanna, the Bann of Waking Sea. He remembered her brother well, babbling in Arl Howe's dungeon, his mind addled by lyrium withdrawal. When things had gone badly at the Landsmeet, she had joined them in arms and fought beside him.

The righteous knight in him stirred. It was one thing to allow Isabela to duel nameless merchants and sell-swords, but another to see her slaughter a woman who had defended him in battle. Impulsively, he threw himself between Isabela and Alfstanna, his back to the Bann.

"Wait!" he shouted at Isabela, not knowing what else to say.

Isabela scowled at him. "Are you out of your mind?" she demanded. "She attacked _us_, they boarded _my _ship. What do you expect me to do?"

"Well, you can't kill her, Isabela," Alistair insisted. "This is a Bann_. _She would cause a lot of trouble for you, I promise."

"I'm not afraid of your lordlings," Isabela snapped. She gestured with her sword and said, "Now if you please, do get out of the way so I can run her through."

Before Alistair could reply, he heard a clatter of footsteps, and Alfstanna jumped behind him and then she had her dagger at his neck, slipping it into the small space between helmet and chest piece. He gulped, and felt it scratching at him. He had not really planned this well, he thought. "Drop it, frog," Alfstanna hissed at Isabela, near his ear, "or he dies."

"Oh, please," she said, laughing. "You would be doing me a favor. Anyway, we're not Orlesians."

"The ship's a loaner," Alistair explained, his breath shallow to avoid the knife.

"We're just pirates," Isabela added.

"Ooh, so much better," Alfstanna said. She held tighter to Alistair. Her breath was warm against his neck, and she smelled like cinnamon. "Let my men back onto our ship."

Isabela laughed. "What's left of them, anyway," she said, snorting. She crossed her arms, irritated, and lifted her chin. The message was clear; noble or not, Alfstanna was beneath her. "I didn't want them here in the first place, you foolish girl. I'm not the one attacking strange ships like some untried buccaneer."

Alfstanna paused, holding her breath. She looked around, a little frantically, trying to assess her options. "We thought you were Orlesians," she explained, looking back at Isabela. "I had intelligence that suggested chevaliers would be entering Ferelden, posing as merchants."

"Well, in one thing, then, you were correct," Isabela replied. "There were chevaliers on this ship, before we killed them." She looked at Alistair, under Alfstanna's dagger, and rolled her eyes. "Fine. Your men can go." The man Alistair had knocked to the deck was getting shakily to his feet, and the one Isabela had attacked seemed like he could walk, but another was unconscious, and the fourth had an arrow through his helmet and was not moving. The two soldiers looked at Alfstanna, dazed, unsure of what to do. Isabela huffed, and then motioned to two of her men to help them carry their casualties away.

When they were finally back on the Fereldan ship, Isabela asked, "Any further demands?"

"Surrender your vessel," Alfstanna said, her voice shaking. Isabela laughed again, and turned away from her. She gestured at her men, and pushed in on Alistair and Alfstanna. "Stop it! I'll kill him, I really will."

"I wouldn't, were I you." Alistair looked up the mast, and saw Zevran perched, an arrow cocked in his bow. "He is a silly man, but I made a promise to a lady, you understand. I think you had better release him now." When Alfstanna hesitated, Zevran tugged on the bowstring and said, "Trust me, I have a clear shot. Well, clear enough. He'd live."

"Have you been there this whole time?" Alistair asked.

The elf only shrugged.

Alfstanna looked desperately from Zevran, to Isabela, and then she groaned, defeated. Lowering her dagger, she shoved Alistair away, cursing. Alistair stumbled, feeling the skin on his neck burn. She had nicked him. He removed his helmet carefully, feeling the fresh blood pooling on his skin. It wasn't too deep, but still. He had jumped into the fight to save her, and then she had threatened to kill him, and _cut_ him. He shot her a wounded look.

Recognition dawned on her face, and her jaw dropped. "Prince Alistair…?" she asked shakily.

_Oops_. Zevran was right; he wasn't made for undercover work. "Uh… no," he said weakly, then, when she looked unconvinced, he mumbled, "Gah… I mean, it's just Alistair."

"Right," Alfstanna said. Then she frowned, inspecting him curiously. "I heard you were dead."

He squirmed. "The story was embellished a little," he said.

"Huh." She looked back up at Zevran in the crow's nest. "I see you still travel with the assassin who tried to kill you."

"Not on purpose," Alistair grumbled. "How's your brother?"

"He's bet-"

"This is a very touching reunion," Isabela interrupted. "Can we please focus on our little stand-off?"

"Right, of course," Alistair said, and he backed towards Isabela and her crew.

Zevran slung his bow back over his shoulder and swung out of the crow's nest, landing lightly on the deck. He considered Alfstanna for a moment, as she stood there cornered and breathless, then turned to Alistair and asked, "What do we do with her now?"

All eyes turned to him. Isabela glared at him icily, but he ignored her. Alfstanna was biting her lip, waiting, scared but trying not to show it. And Zevran waited respectfully, deferring to him in the way he once did to Nancora, expecting his order. Nancora by proxy, he thought. "Well, we can't let you go," he told Alfstanna, after a moment. "Can't have you spoiling my disappearance. You'll have to come with us to Orlais."

"Excuse me, but this is still _my_ ship," Isabela said quickly. "And I am not actually in the habit of adopting stray nobles who attack me."

"You're going to Orlais?" Alfstanna asked. She sheathed her blades, relaxing a little. At this point, surrounded by Isabela's men, they would not do much good. "Why?"

"Piracy. Raiding. Looting." Isabela shrugged. "The usual. I'm sure you'd disapprove."

"I'm sorry, but you have to remember I've _met_ Alistair," Alfstanna said, laughing. "And if he's a pirate, I'm the Revered Mother." Alfstanna studied him curiously. "So are you going to Val Royeaux? Going to stop the invasion all by yourself, are you? I bet that's it. You Wardens love overwhelming odds." She grinned. "Fantastic. I'm in."

"Is no one _listening_ to me?" Isabela demanded. "Me, pirate! I don't want you on my ship, Fereldan. I will kill you while you sleep."

Alfstanna smiled, a big toothy smile. "I guess I'll have to keep this one close, then," she said, and she slipped her hand inside Alistair's arm. He looked at her, startled. She said, "You make a good hostage."

She smiled at him, warmly, like she hadn't just held a knife to his throat. Clearly, she was insane. One day he'd travel with normal people, he thought. At least she was cuter than Sten.


	7. A Message Unclear

A dog arrived at Vigil's Keep, and Varel, the Seneschal, received him. The dog had arrived with purpose, as if on a mission, and it carried a note for "NS." Nancora Surana, he surmised, and he summoned the Warden-Commander to the throne room. The dog sat and waited expectantly. Nancora came immediately, her hands shaking, and she held her breath when she saw that it was her mabari. She felt a sick numbness spread from her heart to her toes. Ser Poopier had been with Alistair.

"He brought a note," Varel said.

"What does it say?" Nancora asked, her voice trembling.

Varel shook his head. "It's unclear," he said. "Something about a red-head."

He handed it to her and she read it, desperately. The message was signed with a "Z" and she only knew one person whose name began with that letter. But as Varel had suggested, the letter made absolutely no sense.

_NS,_

_It seems the old soldier may not have been so paranoid after all._

She frowned. Who in the Maker's name was the old soldier? Alistair? No, that didn't make any sense. Duncan? Zevran didn't know Duncan. Arl Eamon? What was Arl Eamon paranoid about, Anora? Nancora shook her head and read on.

_Kin of our singing red-headed friend may be visiting you, in large numbers, on their way south._

That was clearly Leliana, but Nancora didn't know anything about her family, or why he didn't just say "Leliana." Or why they would be visiting her, for that matter.

Then it got really strange.

_Take care. I am off to Val Royeaux, if you can get away, you should join me._

_-Z_

_P.S. I miss you_

A few weeks ago, she had learned that Alistair had died at sea. It was the loneliest moment of her life. Now this cryptic letter from Zevran, asking her to run away with him, professing to _miss_ her. Her breath came weakly, her fingertips went cold, and the vellum in her hands felt like heavy iron. Their relationship had hardly been more than a flirtation. Surely he didn't…?

She scanned the letter again, but there was nothing in it about Alistair. Their ship had burned to embers, but here was a note from Zevran, with no mention of Alistair, in code or otherwise. Her eyes fell again on the big, florid "Z" and she felt the numbness burn away, replaced by hot rage. _Why wasn't he with Alistair? _her mind demanded, but there was no answer. Had he abandoned him with Isabela, at the docks, or was it worse? Had he set the ship ablaze himself, murdering Alistair out of… what? Jealousy? A fit of pique? She did not know, and there was no one to tell her.

She stood in the throne room, surrounded by the people who trusted her, and she exploded. _Fire. _Ser Poopier whined and cowered before her, while her less loyal companions fled, screaming, as she felt fire envelop her, roaring, burning, spreading from her hands, up her arms, over her back. Ser Poopier barked furiously, running around, terrified for her.

"Nancora!" she heard Anders shouting. "Nan, _stop!"_

_Breath. _She reached out with her mind and brought the fire under control. It faded away, her mana spent, and she fell to her knees.

"What was _that_?" Anders asked, running to her, too spooked to be funny. He looked at her hands, where the note had been. "What did it say?"

She looked too, and saw the note was gone, turned to ash. She tried to remember, puzzling it out. "I have no idea," she said, frowning. "Some nonsense about a friend of mine. And an old soldier? Also, Zevran… that's the Antivan Crow I told you about…" and she clenched her fists tightly, opened them, clenched them again, said, "Never mind. It's not important."

Nancora shook her head, then said curtly, "You," to Anders, "Come with me." She left the throne room and walked to her room. Her skin was still hot to the touch. Anders followed behind her, silently, just a little bit scared of her. "I'm going to Val Royeaux," she told him. "I have to investigate this. I'd like you to come with me. You, me, and…" and she ran through her companions in her mind, "and the dog. I can't spare anyone else."

"But what about… the darkspawn…. the Keep," Anders said carefully. "We're just leaving?"

She pulled a backpack out of her closet and started throwing clothes and potions into it. She threw the clothes in first, hard, so they could make a cushion for the potions. She did not feel like being gentle. She jerked the backpack closed, angrily, then she sighed and opened it again. She wasn't going anywhere, she realized. "Oh," she said, then, "Right."

"Duty calls, and all that." Anders was smiling nervously.

"Of course." Nancora covered her face with her hands. Damn Zevran. Damn stupid bloody _duty. _ Then she wheeled on Anders, her expression fierce. "Alright. Fine. Let's go," she said suddenly.

"To… Val Royeaux?"

She rolled her eyes. "No," she said, and pointed at the bed, the giant elephant in the room. "Let's _go. _Look," and now Anders' eyes were big like saucers, "I'm tired of feeling like this, just, _angry_ and _empty_ all the time, and you've been chasing me since the day we met. Let's just get it over with. You and me, right now. Do you want to or not?"

Anders frowned. They had flirted, yes, but he had not expected her to come after him like _this, _so suddenly. He looked from her, to the bed, then back to her. Then he shrugged. "Sure," he said.

Nancora flinched, and Anders pretended not to notice. She leaned back against the wardrobe and let him kiss her. He held her shoulders and kissed her neck, nudging her head to the side with his cheek. She exhaled, realizing she had been holding her breath. He kissed her behind the ear, then came around, their eyes met uncomfortably, and he kissed her mouth. She closed her eyes, pretending_. _Then she felt a tingling jolt of electricity.

The same electricity passed between them, biting at her, crawling along her skin. It _was _different with a mage. A flash of ice, then sweetness, and warmth. Moving his arms down her sides to her back, Anders lifted her up on his hips and then negotiated her to the bed.

She sat on the edge for a moment, kissing him, before she leaned back, flush with the blankets. He hovered over her, checking her face, then he moved his hand to her leg and ran his fingers up her thigh, pushing her short yellow robes up. She forced herself to relax, staring into his eyes, then she allowed her legs to shift under his hands. Another shock of electricity. He pressed closer.

And then Ser Poopier burst into the room, snarling, and he leapt on Anders, grabbing the mage's robes in his teeth, pulling him off his feet. Once on the floor, the dog sat on him, for good measure.

Nancora lay stunned, unable to move.

"Asschabs! What the… get your crazy dog _off_ me!" Anders sputtered, crushed under the weight of the giant dog. Feeble struggling by the mage was useless against the war hound. Shocked to action, Nancora jumped off the bed and tugged at the mabari's collar, but Ser Poopier would not budge. He was no longer attacking, though, either; he just kept on barking and barking and looking at her with urgent eyes.

After murmuring gently to the dog and stroking his head, Nancora finally coaxed him off of Anders. She was mortified. This was, by far, the most embarrassing sexual experience of her life. And that was saying something. She looked at Anders, who was still sprawled on the floor. She offered him a hand, and he took it, rising gingerly as if badly bruised.

"I am so, _so _sorry," she stammered, then she looked at her dog and demanded, "Poops, what has gotten into you?"

The dog began to whimper at her, and she grabbed him by the collar and stared into his large, earnest eyes. Ser Poopier would never disobey her, she thought. What was he thinking?

Then she blinked. _Ser Poopier would never disobey me. _Zevran might have abandoned Alistair, but her dog never would. He couldn't. Yet here he was.

She sat down on the bed, dazed. She had it all wrong. Anders coughed and walked hesitantly towards her, eyeing the dog. Ser Poopier growled. Anders froze. "Please don't be insulted," he said quickly, "because I'm very flattered and I think you're great, really. But I'm going to have to decline your offer. For now. Being mauled by a giant slobbering death hound does that to me." He paused, added, "I'm more of a cat person, really." Nancora's face didn't respond; she was staring a million miles past him. "What's wrong?"

Startled, she looked up at him, squinted, looked away, and then she began to laugh, a giddy laugh he'd never heard from her before. "I guess nothing's wrong." She stood up, shook her head, then laughed again. She remembered the note, and remembered how the handwriting seemed to change in the post script. Less big and flowery, more tight and careful. The way they taught in the Chantry.

A smile spread from ear to ear. Zevran and her dog were alive, it stood to reason that Alistair was alive as well. They were probably in Orlais. The rest of the note was just jibberish, perhaps it didn't mean anything. At any rate, she couldn't worry about it then; her mind was singing with joy. Alistair was alive.

Then she looked at Anders and withered. "Er. Maker. Let's pretend this never happened, okay?" she said quickly. "Darkspawn to fight, an arling to save. Carry on."


	8. The Dream

Morrigan is beautiful, even he has to admit that, but at this moment she looks like a panther stalking a wounded deer. A terrified, inexperienced, very uncomfortable deer. She leans over him and blows out the candle, a small mercy, and the darkness swallows them.

Then he feels her hands on him, touching him with a cool, almost scientific precision. He cannot imagine anything more alien to his experience of love, and he finds himself angry at Nancora for making him do this. She doesn't want him to die, he understands that, and he does not want to die, either, but he would rather die than do… this.

In his head he knows this is wrong, but in his gut he wants to live, and his body responds to her, despite himself. Then the panther is on him, and he is ashamed that it feels good. She tugs his arm, and rolls onto her back and pulls him on top of her. Her legs are wrapped around his; they are still entangled. "'Tis better for conception," she explains clinically. Fine, then. If this is what Nancora wants, so be it. Morrigan laughs condescendingly, that sparkling little laugh of hers, knowing she has won.

In the dark, his eyes are starting to adjust, and he can see her now, emerging from the shadows. He sees her face change, the way it always does. Before he can roll off her and free himself, her nose grows longer, lower and her mouth widens. Her yellow eyes glow, and her teeth sharpen. Then her feet become claws, and her fingers become talons, and she is covered with scales and her tail is wrapped around his naked back. The monster opens her huge, toothy mouth, and he can feel the taint in her, howling in the darkest parts of his soul.

And it is not Morrigan anymore, but the Archdemon, writhing beneath him, her long neck arching. The dragon roars, and Alistair screams, and is devoured.

-o-

"Aaarhhh!" Alistair cried out, waking himself. He was drenched in sweat. The nightmare always ended the same way, with him screaming in his bed, alone. He checked the bunk, just in case, but there was no dragon there. Isabela's ship, he reminded himself; he was not in Redcliffe. His breath was gasping, still. He closed his eyes and tried to settle his pounding heart.

Alfstanna's head hung down from the bunk above his, looking at him curiously. "You have a dream?" she asked him.

He blinked, clearing the sleep from his eyes. He had forgotten she was there, but she had moved into that bunk a week ago when they took her on board, and he should have remembered by now. "Bad dream," he said, nodding. He shivered and tugged his blankets up around his shoulders.

Alfstanna grinned. "For a while, I wasn't sure if it was a bad dream," she said, "or, you know, a really _good _dream."

"Ah, I see," Alistair grunted, and he laughed a little. She was artless, and straightforward, and that was reassuring. He relaxed, and his breath came easily again. She watched him curiously, and he laughed again. "Well, if you must know, Alfstanna… it's a recurring nightmare I have, where I'm making it with the Archdemon." More or less.

"Oh, well then, _yuck,_" she said, scowling. "Thanks for that imagery. And I've told you, it's just Alfie. We're roommates now." She flipped down off the bed and landed gracefully on the floor. All his companions were acrobats, it seemed. Alfstanna was the picture of a tomboy, with her short unfussy hair and straight, lanky frame. At night, she wore a crisp nightshirt and shorts to sleep. Nancora wore a nightgown, he remembered, a delicate blue slip with thin shoulder straps.

Sitting on her heels, Alfstanna rested her elbows on her knees, and asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Definitely not. Never ever," he said, closing his eyes and sticking out his tongue in mock disgust. "Ugh. Would the Fade shatter if, just once, I had a nice, normal dream about Nancora, where we sip wine, and make love on a bed of daffodils? I mean, really." Alfstanna's eyes widened for moment, startled. "Oh, I'm sorry. That was too much information, again."

"Um… no, it's nothing," she stammered, then, "That's the first time I've heard you say her name." She paused, looking down. "The Hero of Ferelden, I mean. It's been a long time since the Landsmeet. I thought that… never mind."

Alistair frowned at Alfstanna, confused, but didn't pursue it.

She said, "So it's a been a while, though, hasn't it? Since you saw her?" Alistair nodded. Alfstanna stumbled on. "I take it you plan on… seeing her again sometime. Some of the noble boys are going to be very disappointed." He raised an eyebrow at her, so she explained. "Everybody's trying to figure out how she fits into everything, who she can marry for the most profit, what it might mean for the Queen. Moves are being planned. Politics, you know."

Alistair got the impression that she was trying to make the awkward moment better by talking as fast as possible. He knew a little bit about that, and he smiled, amused. "What do you think you're going to do, exactly?" she asked. "Show up in Amaranthine and stop being, well, dead? Kidnap her one evening after dinner?" She flashed her toothy smile.

He propped his head up on his elbow, and looked at Alfstanna, considering. "Trying not to think about it," he said. "First we've got to figure out what to do about this pesky little invasion, then I'll worry about my tragic romance."

"Ah," Alfstanna said. "A sound plan."

"So what about you, then?" Alistair asked. "Noble boys beating at your door, too?"

"Sometimes," she said, shrugging. "I try not to answer. They're always selling something."

Alistair glanced at the small round window. The sun was still down, but there was a faint glow. It would be dawn soon, and the day's work would begin again. "I miss her," he said.

"You love her," she said.

"I do_,_" Alistair said, and he smiled. "It's impossible not to love her. Nan's got this special power, an aura that draws people to her." When Alfstanna's brow furrowed, he said quickly, "Oh, I don't mean literally. She's not that kind of mage."

Alfstanna was watching him quietly, so he continued. "We had this guy with us, the Sten," he said. "He's this giant, eight foot tall Qunari warrior. And you know Nancora, she's a tiny elf, she's literally comes up to here on me," and he held his hand to his chest, at the edge of his blankets, "and Qunari hate women, and mages, and basically everybody who isn't Qunari, but before a fortnight was out, she had him following her like a starstruck fan. She's amazing." He paused a moment, remembering her. In his memory she was already becoming an outline, and he found he had to work harder every day to remember the details of her face. He shrugged and said, "And for some reason, she wanted _me._"

"I can't imagine why," Alfstanna said.

He looked at her blankly.

"Huh," she said. She rocked back on her heels and squinted at him. "At the Landsmeet, I was pretty convinced this clueless insecurity thing was an act. Didn't want the Banns to think that you were too keen on yourself. As if you didn't…" and she paused and looked at him, and he was totally befuddled. She shook her head, smiling. "No," she said firmly. "I won't ruin it. It's too adorable."

"I have a feeling you're making fun of me," Alistair said, "but I don't know how, exactly."

She laughed and bit her lip, then when the silence stretched out she laughed again. "Alistair, you… might be kind of okay-looking," she said, and rolled her eyes. Alistair blinked at her, waiting for the punchline. "No, seriously," she assured him. "More than okay. You're in the 'doesn't matter if he can't add one and two together' class of gorgeous. Not that you can't, I mean, it's just…" She stopped, and laughed at herself. "Nancora has never told you this?"

"Uh, sure," Alistair said, fumbling, "but that's just stuff you say when you're dating someone, right?" Alfstanna was giving him a funny look. He put his hand over his heart. "Raised in the Chantry, not really a dating expert."

"Mm hmm. So, the sisters at this Chantry," Alfstanna said, still smirking at him. "Did they have you do a lot of errands? A lot of heavy lifting?"

"All the time!" he said, surprised. He did not know where this was going, but he was glad they seemed to be changing the subject. "The amount of wood they needed chopped, you would not believe."

"Uh huh," Alfstanna said. "They ever hang around, for no specific reason, while you were doing all this chopping? Maybe especially on hot days, when you had to take your shirt off?"

"Alfstanna!"

"Alfie," she corrected gently. She said, "You would blush if you heard the way the Banns' wives talked about you."

"Pretty sure I'm blushing _now,_" Alistair said.

"When we fought Loghain's guards, at the Landsmeet," Alfstanna said, "you were always in front with your shield, defending everyone, watching out for everyone. She was always two steps behind, watching _you_." She paused, then said, "It's funny. Most people wondered what _you_ saw in _her._"

Alistair scowled at her, and she added quickly, "I mean, of course _I_ didn't. She saved my brother's life, and for that I'm forever grateful. I'm in her aura, like you said." The sun was up now, and he could see her better. Her eyes were shining, enjoying the sport of teasing him, her cheeks flushed. She stood and brushed herself off. "Look, it's tomorrow. We better get up and get to work. Isabela wants us in Orlais as soon as possible, and we shouldn't push her, I think."

-o-

They had arrived. Alistair's drummed his fingers anxiously on the side of the ship. It was one thing to say you were going to a strange foreign city to do something about an invasion by a huge foreign army, but another thing entirely to look out on that city and realize that yes, it was time to get started.

There was no mistaking this city for one he knew. Spires of marble and glass and iron spread into the distance, in all directions, like a field of dangerous flowers. A flock of pigeons flew up, startled, from amid the buildings, as the faint sound of music drifted in on the wind. Dominating the skyline, the magnificent Grand Cathedral sat large in the distance; all of Denerim could fit in its massive domed basilica, he thought.

Before they had even tied on to the pier, Isabela stood before him, eyes narrowed, holding his bag. "This is your stop," she said. She tossed his bag at Alistair as he moved to take it from her. It was heavy and knocked the wind out of him as he caught it. She wheeled on Zevran and said crossly, "You have completely lost your mind, you know that? I expect this kind of insanity from…" and she waved vaguely at Alistair and Alfstanna, "but I didn't think foolish heroics were your thing."

"Oh, I can be foolish every now and again," Zevran promised.

"You could still stay here, on the ship, with me," she suggested. "Lots of pirate fun to be had."

"To be sure," Zevran said, grinning at her. "It was a good time, Isabela, but sadly, this is where we part ways. Unless you want to join us?

She shook her head emphatically, and kissed him on the cheek. Then she waved at them without smiling, and turned away until they started down the gangplank. "You are all fools, on a fool's errand, and I will probably never see you again," she said, as they hit the docks. "Good luck not dying." She gestured to her crew and said, "Let's get out of here."

As the _Spoony Bard_ pulled away, Alistair watched it go and wondered, not for the first time, if this was a terrible idea. He looked down the docks and gaped. It was at least three times as long as those at Amaranthine. Chattering mobs of people pushed and pulled their way around stacks of crates, raucous street vendors, and the detritus of traffic.

Two dock official approached them, holding a ledger, asking fast questions in Orlesian. "Setsien vos absiciens dans Val Royeaux," one said curtly, looking at Alistair. The language was low in the throat, like a cat purring, and it was hard to find the beginning and the end of words. "Dequel longheur sont hier?"

When Alistair did not answer, the official became irritated, pursing his lips and huffing. He turned to his companion to say something. Alistair's mind raced, and he glanced at Zevran but the elf was as confused as he was. He wondered if they would have to turn around, right there, or fight their way through, when Alfstanna stepped forward and said, in a smooth clear voice, "Somes hier pour faire affares, dois o trois wochier."

The official relaxed, and turned to her. He made a note on his ledger. "Etes l'accueil," he said, and Alfstanna smiled politely. "Dou est marché?" she asked, then, "Dou sont auberges?" The offical gestured past the docks, pointing in various directions, saying, "marché," and then "auberge, non demas cherais." Alfstanna nodded and then reached into her pocket and gave him four coppers. The official bowed at her, pleased. Then he handed two of the coppers to his partner, and they retreated.

"That's useful," Alistair said, to Alfstanna.

Zevran nodded. "And here I thought your skills might be limited to poorly conceived naval assaults."

Alfstanna flushed red, but when she saw Zevran was smiling, she relaxed and said, "Fancy imported tutors. It's nice to know they were good for something." She looked past the docks and added, "He gave me directions to the market, and an inn he recommends."

Then she turned back and looked at Alistair, her wide brown eyes expectant. Zevran was looking at him curiously, as well. "What?" he said. "Is there something on my nose?"

"This is the part where you tell us what we're doing next," Alfstanna explained.

"Oh, I hate that part," Alistair said, frowning.

He looked past the docks, to where the gilded city of Val Royeaux rose in the distance. In Ferelden he had become somewhat important, and he had taken it for granted; here, suddenly, he felt small and provincial, and he was keenly aware that his clothes were not very nice. Except for his hat, of course, but that was not enough. He stood before was the seat of the Orlesian empire, the most powerful country in the world, sprawling and ornate and distinctly foreign. This was beyond the scope of his experience, that much he knew.

"We need information," he said at last, and he looked at Zevran. "I think it's time we find our singing red-headed friend."

* * *

**AN**: Wood chopping hotness inspired by "Taking a Break" by Aimo at Deviant Art. Links don't seem to work here, but google it and check it out, it is very cute.


	9. Casque d'Aveline

"Where would we go for entertainment?" Alistair asked the innkeeper, after they checked in. The chubby old man met his eyes, puzzled. Alistair elaborated. "We're looking for a woman. A minstrel, pretty, red hair. Do you know where she might perform?"

"Yes, I see. You go to _Cage Dorée_," he said. His Fereldan was halting, and heavily accented, but clear enough. "Is down by docks, on west side. Very beautiful." He nodded pleasantly.

Alfstanna and Zevran followed him back to the docks. The air was hot and thick with the smell of fish. _Cage Dorée_ was not beautiful; in fact, it was dark and grimy, and a thin veil of smoke drifted out from the door. The sound of low music, woodwinds, perhaps, pulsed through the walls. Alistair regarded it skeptically for a moment, then he shrugged and walked in. Immediately he walked back out.

"Okay then," he said quickly, as Zevran and Alfstanna stared at him, surprised. "Bit of a miscommunication. This is not the place." Zevran and Alfstanna exchanged a glance, then looked back at him quizzically. Alistair looked down at his shoes, blushing, and mumbled, "Wrong kind of entertainment."

"Oh? Pity." Zevran said, suppressing a smile. He peered curiously around Alistair's shoulder. "Still, we should go inside, see if we can learn anything."

"You've already learned what they have to teach, I think," Alistair said, his brow arching.

Alfstanna snorted and rolled her eyes. She stopped a young man on his way in and spoke quickly with him for a moment. The man considered Zevran and Alistair as he pointed back into the city. As he left, Alfstanna said, "He says there's another place, it's a long walk, but they have singers. It's called _Dois den Sorte, _and it's that way."

After an hour they found it, clear across town. It was painted brightly in greens and purples, garish by Fereldan standards. A trio of three minstrels, all male and dressed flamboyantly, sang in Orlesian on a dais in the back. It was too crowded for the space, and Alistair sweated in his long sleeves. Alfstanna slipped through the dense crowd to the bar and spoke with the bartender. He was slender, his hair oiled, and his black tunic was too tight. After a while Alfstanna laughed, and the bartender smirked at her. She made her way back to them, chuckling to herself.

"What is it?" Alistair asked.

"He must have thought…. with Zevran… and you acting so… ha ha, it's not important. Dois den Sorte, right, I get it." Alistair scowled at her, and she stuck out her tongue at him, making a goofy face. "You don't want to know. Leliana wouldn't be performing here. Clearly."

A skinny elf with crystal blue eyes came behind them, and coughed. "I heard you're looking for a red-headed bard," he said, in a low voice. He was not Orlesian, and spoke Fereldan as though he came from Denerim's alienage. "I think I've seen her, at Aveline's Helmet. _Casque d'Aveline, _I mean. She sings for tips. She has a nice-" and at a startled look from Alfstanna, he paused and said, "voice."

He glanced nervously at Zevran and said "Hey," sticking his hands in his pockets.

Zevran licked his lips, and was about to reply, when Alistair cleared his throat and asked, "Where is this _Casque d'Aveline?"_

The little elf jumped, and he said, "Oh, it's near the Cathedral. Tourist trap for a pilgrims. Good wine, though." His eyes stayed on Zevran.

"Some other time, perhaps," Zevran said. The skinny elf shrugged and returned to the tavern.

The Cathedral was another long trek, and the sun had already set. "Can you manage without me?" Alfstanna asked, yawning. "If it's for pilgrims, I'm sure they speak Fereldan."

"Of course, Alfie," Alistair said. "Thanks for your help."

She beamed. "It's good to be useful," she said, then she squeezed his arm affectionately and said, "You stay out of trouble now." With a wave, she headed back into the city, towards the inn. Alistair and Zevran headed in the opposite direction, following the hum of the Chant.

-o-

_Casque d'Aveline_ was an old and well worn tavern, the floor scuffed and the chairs rickety. Like the others, it bustled with activity. The mass of patrons hailed from all over Thedas, but there were no minstrels. They decided to wait and see if that changed. Pushing through the throng, Zevran found a table in the back and claimed it. The tabletop was sticky with spilled wine.

"Orlesians like drinking," Alistair observed, joining him. "All the bars have been so busy here."

"I don't think this is normal, my friend," Zevran said, shaking his head. He pointed to a sign behind the bar, where the symbol of a sunflower was drawn large in chalk. "I believe it is Summersday tomorrow."

"Ah. No wonder it's so hot," Alistair said. He picked up a napkin and wiped the sweat off his brow. He remembered it had been a crisp fall afternoon when they had ended the Blight, weather much more to his liking. Three full seasons had passed since they killed the Archdemon, he realized. The year of 9:30 Dragon had been a eventful, he thought, but the last nine months had passed in a blur.

The world seemed to separate itself from him for a moment. Nine months had passed. His breath felt heavy in his throat, and he swallowed. His nightmare… was it a Grey Warden vision? Was he sensing the child? It was born now, surely. The realization ambushed him, and the sounds of the crowd around him faded behind the roaring in his ears.

He heard Zevran's voice, as if from far away. "Alistair." He felt a small, firm hand grasping his arm, concerned. "What's wrong? You look like a cat pissed on your grave."

Alistair mumbled, "Just… hot_,_" and dropped his head to the table. He crossed his hands over the back of his head. He heard Zevran step carefully away from him, and let him go. In his imagination, he saw Morrigan, bearing down in the woods somewhere, squatting, howling at the moon, as a draconic Old God slithered out of her and _ate the entire world. _He shuddered helplessly.

"I thought you could use a drink," he heard Zevran say, and he looked up and saw Zevran had returned, holding a very tall glass of water.

Alistair sat up. "Zev… yes, thank you," he said. He reached up and took the glass in his hands, feeling the cool condensation on his fingers. He lifted it and he drank deep; he really was thirsty. It _burned. _He spat and said, "Maker, that is _not _water."

"Why would it be water?" Zevran asked, frowning.

Alistair looked at a Zevran and considered for a minute. The thought that this was a terrible idea crossed his mind, and was gone. Then he took the glass and swallowed the rest of it in one gulp. It was a considerable amount, and from the taste of it, very strong. "That was foul," Alistair said, puckering.

"Antivan gin is not known for its elegant bouquet," Zevran said. He looked at the empty glass, then to Alistair, and said, "You do not drink often, do you?" Alistair shook his head, and Zevran's golden eyes lit up. Then he disappeared into the crowd, and returned holding a large bottle, and a second glass. "Something is bothering you," he said, refilling Alistair's glass and pouring a smaller amount for himself. He turned his chair to face Alistair, who regarded him suspiciously. "I will not ask, of course."

"That's very considerate of you, Zev," Alistair said, "but you must be curious."

Zevran smiled mischievously. "Go on, drink up."

"I'm not going to tell you," Alistair said, starting on his fresh glass. There was a pleasant warm feeling in his stomach, and he felt the aches in his feet and legs fading. Alistair had never had anything stronger than mead before. Mead. That was a funny word. He chased the last gulp with another.

He scanned the tavern again, but there was no sign of Leliana. He knew she had returned to Orlais after the battle, seeking Marjolaine, but he did not know if she was in Val Royeaux, or if she had even returned to performing as a bard. He hoped they would find her soon, though, because they were lost in this city without her. A fool's errand, Isabela had said. He should have left this to Nancora. This saving the world business was _her _thing, and he would rather be a sidekick. He took a long drink of his gin.

"I think the Bann has a crush on you," Zevran said, in the silence.

He expected Alistair to protest, but he only scratched his chin, and said, "Yes." Alistair scowled into his glass, then looked back at Zevran. "What should I do?"

Zevran laughed blithely. "Are you asking _me_ for advice?" he asked. He held his drink, nursing it, swirling the clear liquid around so that it licked up the sides of the glass. "That is most unwise. If you did what I would do, then I would have to kill you. For Surana's honor, you understand."

Alistair nodded, not sure that he did, and returned to his drink. He was feeling a little fuzzy behind his eyes. His glass was already half empty. Half full? Turning it with his hand, he watched the liquor sparkle in the torchlight.

Zevran reached out and grabbed Alistair's arm, and shook it reassuringly. It was oddly friendly, and Alistair realized, suddenly, that they had indeed become friends. Drinking buddies, even. He had not expected that, when they headed off together, but it was nice. Zevran said, "That is not what is bothering you, I hope?"

Alistair shook his head quickly. The room swam in his vision when he did this, so he stopped. Zevran rested his head easily on his hands and waited. "This is good," Alistair said, half to himself, and he took another long drink. Interesting. It did not burn anymore. With his tongue thoroughly numbed, the gin tasted almost pleasant, like juniper and peppermint. Zevran was alright, he thought. "I guess… well… I was just thinking about the Archdemon."

Zevran snorted. "And here I assumed you were moping about Surana," he said, eyebrows lifted. "The Archdemon?"

"You remember..." Alistair said. "Big guy, long tail, sorta purple. Likes to say _'_Rar.'"

"Yes, I do seem to recall," Zevran said. "What about it, exactly?"

Alistair pointed an accusing finger at Zevran, still holding his glass. "I _said, _I'm _not _telling you." He took another drink. "Nosy bastard."

"Of course," Zevran said. He sipped cautiously at his glass, watching Alistair.

Alistair looked out at the crowd of revelers, celebrating the new year. He thought about the Grey Wardens, how much they had enjoyed drinking together. Between Blights, they were a glorified fraternity with a bad retirement plan. For centuries they would wait, watching, playing at war. For most of them, the cost was merely an abstraction, but when at last an Archdemon would rise, a Warden was duty bound to be there, and do what was necessary.

_In death, sacrifice_.

He wondered what Duncan would say to him, if he knew.

"It's just… I just realized," Alistair said, after a time, "it's been nine months since we killed that thing."

Zevran dropped his glass to the table, staring at Alistair, questing. "Nine… ?" he asked.

Alistair met his gaze, and nodded.

"Maker's breath!" Zevran said, and he smiled broadly, in spite of himself. "You dog! I had no idea." He searched his memory, added, "Nancora's robes are very slimming."

And then Alistair laughed, and Zevran laughed, and then Alistair began to giggle hysterically. Antivan gin was very effective. Alistair got up from his chair, then he swayed uncertainly, and Zevran stood and steadied him. Alistair was laughing so hard now that tears shone in his eyes. He slipped out of Zevran's hands and leaned ungracefully on the back of his chair. "Not Nancora," Alistair said heavily, and he suddenly stopped laughing. "The other one... Morrigan."

Zevran blinked, waiting for an explanation, but Alistair had stopped talking.

"You are joking, of course," Zevran said eventually.

Alistair shook his head.

"Alistair!"

Zevran knew a lot of things about Alistair, and he could guess at a lot more, but this was _never _one of them. He felt puzzle pieces shifting in his mind. Morrigan and Alistair would banter constantly, he remembered. They were so annoying. He had never imagined there was anything to it; Alistair was always moon-eyed over Surana, he thought. His lip twitched. "Your quips always had a certain edge of _flirtation_ to them," he said, and at this, Alistair scowled at him, daring to look disgusted, of all things, "but… Alistair, this is not right."

"What? Have I disappointed _you_, Zevran?" Alistair asked, his voice cracking. "Really. I should mark the day."

Zevran felt a hardening pressure in his gut. "We are both surprised, Alistair," Zevran said. He clicked his tongue. "You play the innocent, but really, _Morrigan_? She was a harpy." Even when they were together, he had always known Nancora would leave him when Alistair asked for her. At the time, he hadn't let it bother him. Alistair was something that he could never be, purity and goodness and simple sweetness. Zevran's jaw worked, and he growled, "You are a fraud, and a liar."

"You know what, Zevran?" Alistair said tightly, straightening, looming dangerously over Zevran. "You have _no _idea what you're talking about."

The threatening stance rankled, and Zevran's fists clenched. He was a small man, but he knew how to throw all his weight into a punch. He lashed out quickly, and sent Alistair sprawling back into their table before he even saw it coming.

Alistair clutched his jaw. It throbbed, and a hot trickle of blood leaked from his mouth. "Did you just… punch me?" he asked, wounded.

"A quick one, you," Zevran huffed. He shook his head and said, "I should have done that a long time ago. You are not a man worthy of Surana."

Alistair jumped up from the table, too quick for the current state of his mind. "You have some idea who is, then, I take it?" he demanded. Zevran just stood there, his mouth a thin line, silently mocking him. Alistair felt heat swelling in his face, and he swung wildly at him. The elf avoided his clumsy attack, dancing easily out of the way.

His fist connected with the head of a burly Free Marcher at the table behind them. The large man stood and turned slowly on Alistair. He grumbled something unintelligible in his own language. Alistair backed away, mumbling apologies, but too slow; the Free Marcher caught him squarely in the face. Alistair fell backwards onto a chair, breaking it, falling to the floor. He grunted in pain, and saw Zevran leap out of the side of his vision and pop the Free Marcher in the eye.

The three men sitting at the Free Marcher's table stood at once, wheeling on Zevran. The elf crouched, surrounded. Alistair stumbled to his feet, grabbed a piece of the broken chair, and stood next to Zevran. Two of the Free Marchers lunged at him, and he struck them frantically with his stick. It connected, miraculously, and the men fell back, howling.

"Bar fight!" he heard somebody shout. Then he felt a crack at the back of his head, and he stumbled. A swarthy Rivaini was grinning at him like a lunatic, holding a broken beer stein. His ears rang, and he lunged at the Rivaini, shoulder first, knocking him back. One of the Free Marchers jumped on his back, pushing him down. Then the Rivaini punched the Free Marcher, and his attacker tumbled off of him and pounced on the Rivaini.

He looked around. Zevran was lost in the crowd, no doubt vanished into the shadows. The entire bar was roiling, suddenly stirred from a peaceful crowd to a crazed mob. A bottle sailed through the air and hit him in the chest, exploding. He was soaked in wine, red like blood, and bits of glass stuck to his shirt. He tried to brush them off, but then one of the Free Marchers found him again, charging at him with arms out, hands open, as if to tear out his eyeballs. Alistair grabbed his wrists with both hands, and then bashed his forehead into the man's nose.

The Free Marcher slumped to the ground, out cold. _Maker, it's like punching myself in the face_, Alistair thought, collapsing on his knees. He felt hands on his arm, gripping hard. Panting, he turned, fists raised. It was Leliana, her red hair done in ringlets, wearing a blue velvet dress and delicate satin shoes. She knelt beside him.

"What did you _do?" _she demanded,in her accented Fereldan. Before he could respond, she clucked and said, "I swear, Alistair. If trouble were oysters, you would be silly with pearls." She tugged on his arm, pulling him towards a back exit. "Come on, this way."

He yielded to her direction, allowing her to guide him away. His vision blurred and darkened. He tried to tell her about Zevran, that the assassin had started it, and where was he, anyway? But his speech was slurred and jumbled, so she ignored him, and forced their way out.


	10. Together Again

Alistair woke up in a puddle of spit, on the floor, in his room. He was unsure of how he got there. He lifted himself up on his arms, and his head spun. He felt more nauseous than he had in weeks. Were they on rough water? Then he remembered that they were no longer on Isabela's ship, that he was at an inn in Val Royeaux, and he wretched suddenly. The vomit was strangely clear, and smelled like juniper.

_Oh, right , _he thought, remembering Zevran and his wicked beverage, _so that happened._

He pushed himself to his feet unsteadily. At the corner of his vision, he saw movement, and turned to see Leliana inspecting him. She wore a simple green dress that flattered her figure, with a brown leather belt cinched around her waist and two silver chains at her neck. The tight ringlets in her hair had loosened, and he saw that it hung down past her shoulders now, in loose curls.

"You're awake," she said.

"More or less," he grumbled. His hands and face throbbed, and he looked at his hands and noticed that his knuckles were swollen and bloody. Perhaps his face, also. He sat down weakly on the bed. His memory of the night before was hazy at best, but he was pretty sure it was all Zevran's fault.

"Your friends are already up," Leliana said. "They went to the market to get breakfast. Zevran, and the girl. I don't know her."

"Bann Alfstanna," he told her. "The girl, that's who she is. You've met."

"Ah, yes," she said, nodding. "The woman with the archers. She is… different than I remember."

"It could be because we kidnapped her," Alistair suggested.

Leliana shook her head. "She doesn't seem to mind," she said, adding, "She's very enthusiastic." She crossed her arms over her chest and scowled at Alistair. "She tells me you plan to take on the Orlesian Empire. By yourself. I know you fancy yourself a hero, Alistair, but even Maric had an army." She paused and then asked pointedly, "Where is Nancora?"

"Hey. I can do some things on my own, you know."

Leliana appeared unconvinced. "Alistair, I got the strangest message from Amaranthine," she said, her brow creasing. "Nancora said I was to pretend you were dead. That I should write you out of my songs." She watched his face carefully before asking, "Is there something wrong between you?"

Alistair exhaled. _Just a few hundred miles of salt water_, he thought ruefully, _and an unholy demon child_. When he was near Nancora, he was caught in her wake, pulled along by the heady excitement of her presence. There had been no room in his heart for doubt. Here, it found its way in, needling him constantly. The overwhelming love he still felt was becoming abstract, like something from a story. He had not known how long a year could be.

"I don't honestly know," he conceded at last. Leliana's eyes softened, giving him that familiar, pitying look. He coughed and quickly changed the subject. "Have you heard anything about chevaliers posing as merchants in the Waking Sea?"

At this Leliana was surprised. "That's interesting," she said, and to his relief, the previous conversation was abandoned. She dropped her arms to her hips and regarded the ceiling, remembering. "I did hear something about that, while looking for Marjolaine. She plays at politics, you remember. But I thought…" She looked back at Alistair. "How did _you _find out about it?"

"Blundered into it," Alistair admitted. "As usual."

She smiled at him. "I see."

At that moment, the door opened, and Zevran and Alfstanna entered. Zevran held a brown bag with a long baguette sticking out of the top. His eyes avoided Alistair's as he turned to settle the bag on a side table. Alfstanna gave him a huge smile and said brightly, "You're awake! How do you feel?"

Alistair tapped his head and grimaced. "How does it look like I feel, Alfie?"

Leliana looked at Zevran and mouthed _Alfie? _but Zevran just shrugged.

"Leliana was just telling me this might have something to do with Marjolaine," Alistair said. He turned to Alfstanna and explained, "Marjolaine's a bard. She used to be Leliana's mentor, but then she framed her for treason and tried to have her killed. Very bad people. It figures she's connected."

"Not connected exactly," Leliana corrected, "but Marjolaine might know something you would find useful. I have been tracking her for some time. Her safe house is in the city, but I have been waiting for the right moment to confront her." She looked from Zevran, to Alistair, to Alfstanna. "Perhaps you could help me. With Alistair, we have a fair chance."

"It never felt right, just letting her go," Zevran said, musing.

Alistair nodded. Leliana chewed her lip and stared down at the floor.

"Wait," Alfstanna said suddenly. "What does Alistair get us?"

"Marjolaine employs mages," Leliana explained, lifting her head. Alfstanna's face was blank. Leliana glanced at Alistair, then back at Alfstanna, and added, "Alistair's a templar."

Alfstanna frowned. "I know that," she said, waving her hands. Her brow furrowed, and she said, "But… we don't have any lyrium."

"Lyrium?" Leliana asked, confused.

"Do we?"

Leliana looked at Alistair. "You don't need lyrium, do you? I suppose I just assumed. I never saw you take any."

Alfstanna turned to him sharply, her eyes searching. "No…" he said carefully, watching her. "It's not necessary. I'm told it makes it work… better, but I never took any."

Alistair saw Alfstanna's face falling. Her eyes unfocused, and her chipper smile faded. _She is thinking about her brother_, he realized. He remembered Irminric naked in his cell, babbling incoherently, his mind addled by lyrium withdrawal. She sat down heavily in a worn armchair, in the corner. "Not… necessary," she said, staring numbly at her hands.

Alistair stood and walked over to her. He put his hand gently on her shoulder. "On the ship," he said carefully. "you said your brother was better. Is he, really?"

"Better, yes," she said. Her fists clenched, and she looked up at him. "Most of the time he recognizes who I am. He can feed himself without making a mess, but you have to remind him to eat or he…" She shook her head violently. "I don't understand. Why would the Chantry…?"

"I'm sorry."

Blinking back tears, she stood abruptly. "I need some air," Alfstanna said, and strode towards the door.

Leliana followed after her. "I'll join you," she said. Alfstanna considered Leliana for a moment, then nodded, and the two women left together. The door swung shut loudly behind them.

Zevran stood in the corner, staring at the groceries. His eyes were tired and dark, and Alistair remembered suddenly that Zevran was angry with him. "My memory is fuzzy," Alistair said, "but did you… punch me? In the face?"

Zevran laughed humorlessly. "Yes," he said.

"Did I… hit you back?"

"You tried."

"Oh." Alistair didn't know what to do, so he said, "I'm sorry."

Zevran waved a hand dismissively. "Please," he said quickly. "It is not my business. I should not have attacked you. Here." He reached into the bag and pulled out an apple, and tossed it at Alistair. Startled, he barely managed to catch it. Zevran met his eyes finally, and said, "I recommend you avoid drinking so much, in the future. It does not suit you."

His usual grin was conspicuously missing. Alistair opened his mouth to ask him what had happened, but a sharp look from Zevran stopped him. "Alistair," he said quickly, and his eyes darting to the puddle on the floor. "You should clean that up. It smells terrible."

With that he slipped out of the room, and Alistair was alone.

-o-

"Zevran and I can slip in through the back, here," Leliana said, drawing her plan out in the dirt outside the inn's kitchen. Her hair was tied in a tight knot, and she wore the inscribed leather armor that Alistair remembered from Redcliffe. It was reassuringly familiar. "She'll have guards there, of course, but they won't be a match for us."

Zevran nodded. "Who enters first?"

"We can flip a coin." Her eyes sparkled as she spoke. "Alfsta… Alfie, you come in through the front with Alistair. I'm told you speak Orlesian. How is your accent?"

"I'm not sure," Alfstanna admitted.

"Say something, then," Leliana suggested. "Something with R's."

"Uh… dou est ruehaur… raisse de rabin… ratatouille?"

Leliana winced. "No, that won't do. You'll have to be just what you are, then, a Fereldan in Orlais, seeking a bard. The nobles hire them from time to time, I think?" Alfstanna nodded. "Just knock on the door and ask to speak to the lady in charge. Be as obnoxious as you can, you're trying to distract her."

"I can do that," Alfstanna said, grinning.

Leliana turned her attention to Alistair. "Marjolaine will recognize you, unfortunately. She has an uncanny memory for faces. Zevran says you have a full helmet?" Alistair nodded. "Good. You will go with Alfie, as her guard. Try not to speak too much, if you can manage, she might recognize your voice also."

"How many do you think are inside?" Alistair asked.

"I'm not sure," Leliana admitted. "She has at least three swordsmen, that I've seen, and two mages. Could be more, but not much. Whatever it is, we can handle them. Just watch out for Marjolaine, she has some tricks." Then she reached out and grasped a hand of Zevran's and Alistair's in each of her own. "This feels good, no?" she said, beaming. "We're back together again, getting ourselves into scrapes. I did not realize how I missed it."

Alistair gripped her hand warmly, and smiled, but it was clear that something was missing, and it wasn't just Nancora. Still, they would make do, and they set off for the safe house.


	11. Bardy Things

The night was cool and clear, the air snapping with the electricity of an approaching summer storm. It would rain soon, Alistair thought. Zevran and Leliana slipped out of sight as they drew closer to the safe house. Alfstanna walked quietly beside him, deep in thought. She felt his eyes on her and met them. "I'm sorry about losing it earlier," she said.

"You've nothing to be sorry about," he said, frowning. "It's terrible what happened to your brother."

"Yes, but… I should be stronger." Alfstanna sighed. "When I got on my ship, I thought I was going to be a hero, save Ferelden or something. Pretty stupid huh?" She paused and lowered her eyes. "Heroes don't go into hysterics every time something sad happens."

"Trust me, that's not true," Alistair said. "Nancora went to pieces _all _the time. Once, we met this merchant who lost his mule-"

Alfstanna smiled. "Shush," she said, eyes blazing, "we're here."

The safe house was an unassuming hovel on the western edge of Val Royeaux. Alfstanna straightened her armor, and rapped the door anxiously with her knuckles. The door cracked open, and a sharp-faced guard's with black hair poked his head out.

"Quel est passe?" he asked hoarsely.

"The password is _kiss my ass_," Alfstanna shrieked. The man jumped. Alistair jumped too, startled to hear such a sound come out of her. She then let loose a string of the most vile epithets he had ever heard, proceeding to insult the city, Marjolaine, and the guard's own mother, and demanded to speak with his supervisor.

The guard blinked, and withdrew, closing the door behind him.

Alfstanna glanced at Alistair, grinning, then beat the door again with her fist. The door cracked open again, and a woman's face appeared. Alistair caught his breath; it was Marjolaine. "You try my patience, Fereldan," she said, in her thick Orlesian accent. "What are you doing here?"

"Uh… " Alfstanna said, fidgeting. "I need a bard, immediately, for… bardy things. Let me in."

Marjolaine's eyes narrowed. "My archers have arrows trained on your neck, you foolish girl," she said tightly. "This place is secret, and you will tell me who gave it up."

A clamor of metal rang out behind her, and Marjolaine turned away momentarily. Alistair grabbed it as she closed the door on his gauntlet, and forced the door open. Alfstanna dashed into the opening and darted behind her.

Alistair hesitated in the doorway, looking for Zevran and Leliana. He saw them at the other rear of the hovel, back to back, fencing with two guards. He pushed in, raising his shield, but Marjolaine ducked away from him and out of his reach. She ran to her henchmen, screaming, "Leliana! I should have known."

He looked for the archers, charging the one on his left, sword out, and before the archer could draw his dagger, Alistair swept his sword back and decapitated him neatly. Alfstanna awoke from her stupor as well, and went for the other archer. He saw Zevran break through the guard's defenses, and plunge his sword into the man's throat. He gurgled for a moment before falling to the floor. Zevran started to turn, to face Marjolaine, when a bolt of lightning knocked him off his feet.

A column of ice engulfed Leliana, freezing her. Alistair ran to her and dispelled the magic as quickly as he could. It was not fast enough, and as he freed her she took a knife in the side, bleeding heavily.

Marjolaine wheeled on him, hissing, "And the templar princeling. Of course." She lunged at him, producing a wickedly twisted dagger from her sleeve, and catching him in the elbow. A shock of pain shot up his arm, and blood dripped down his hand. Distracted, one of the mages caught him in a spell, and he felt his mind clouding; he tried to break it, but he was too late. His vision went dark.

He heard Zevran cackling, the ringing of swords, the thumping of boots on a wood floor. Leliana cried out something about the Maker, behind him, and he heard more footsteps, frantic now. The darkness in his eyes lifted. There were six bodies on the floor, two of them mages, but none of them Marjolaine.

"She went this way," Leliana said urgently, tugging at his arm. He rubbed his eyes and followed Leliana out the back exit. She clutched her side as they ran headlong down the cobblestone streets of Val Royeaux. He heard Alfstanna and Zevran running behind him.

Lightning split the sky, and Alistair flinched, looking for another mage. Rain began to fall in sheets, and he realized it was the natural kind of lightning. They turned a corner, and Alistair saw a flash of red fabric darting out of view. He ran after her, surging past Leliana, splashing through puddles. He saw her again, against a wall, a dead end.

Her dress was wet and stuck to her skin. Marjolaine turned to face him, hair dripping, smiling bravely. Leliana hung behind him, shaking her recurve from her back and notching an arrow. "No tricks, Marjolaine," she warned.

Alistair approached her, gripping his saw-edged sword, shield in front of him. "Tell us what you know about an Orlesian plan to attack Amaranthine," he said.

Marjolaine raised her eyebrows in surprise. "What are you talking about?"

"We aren't fooled, Marjolaine," Leliana said, tugging on the bowstring. "Tell us what you know."

"And what? You'll let me live? Somehow I doubt that, this time."

Alistair glanced at Leliana. They hadn't really thought this through, he realized. "Maybe… we will?" he said weakly.

"That's brilliant," Marjolaine said, turning to him. Her lip curled into a sneer. "I can't imagine why you aren't King." The sound of metal footsteps echoed in the air, interrupting them. Marjolaine perked up. "Guards!" she shouted, "Guards! Help! I'm under attack!"

From behind them, a group of six armed guards appeared, bristling with steel. There they stood, four armed thugs, three of them foreign, holding a well-dressed Orlesian woman trapped in an alley. Marjolaine cowered in fear, but her mouth betrayed a smile.

"Well, this was a cock-up, wasn't it?" Alfstanna muttered.

They turned to face the guards. Zevran crouched, ready to pounce, and he steeled himself for another fight.

Thunder shook the silence, and for a moment, they forgot about Marjolaine, but it was enough. He heard her song brush his ears before it overcame him; it was ancient and piercing and strangely beautiful. The world went dark again. He felt a heavy thud against the back of his head, and he fell. It felt as if he fell forever.

-o-

Alistair's eyes opened slowly, and a fog covered his vision as he blinked, in a daze. Alfstanna hovered over him, a worried look on her face. "Thank the Maker you're awake," she said quickly. "I was starting to get a little worried there."

A sickening feeling of déjà vu passed over him. With great effort, he sat up and looked around. "We're in prison?" he asked, groaning. She nodded. He looked at her, then quickly looked away, blushing. "And you're not wearing any clothes." He felt himself, added, "I'm not wearing any clothes, either, am I?"

She stifled a laugh. "Nope."

"Can you tell me something?" he asked, shivering. "As a ruler of people, can you explain to me why prisoners must always be stripped to their smallclothes?"

Alfstanna shrugged. "I don't know," she admitted. "It's just this thing we do."

He pushed himself to his feet, his balance wobbling a little, and stumbled to the door. He noted that he was taking an awful lot of blows to the head lately, and wondered how many more he could take without becoming a complete imbecile. Considering their stunning performance that night, it was possible he had already passed that threshold.

Trying the lock, he discovered it was, in fact, locked. "It's beyond my meager skills to pick," Alfstanna said, behind him. "If Leliana or Zevran were here…"

He frowned. "Where are they?"

"I don't know," she said. "Maybe they got away. Maybe they're dead." Her voice faltered a little. "I don't remember much. Marjolaine put the whammy on us, and the Orlesians beat us senseless. Then we woke up here, feeling like complete idiots. That about how you remember it?"

"Yep, that sounds right."

Alistair ran his fingers along the edge of the bars, but the cell was solidly built and he could not find a weak point. He turned away from the door and took a sharp breath. Alfstanna had stepped closer him, her eyes wide, and she was still not wearing any clothes. "I'm…" she said, clasping her hands in front of her. "I'm scared, Alistair. I've never done anything like this before before."

"Sure you have," he said, clearing his throat. He found a spot of dirt on the floor that was _not_ a mostly naked girl and stared at it. "You fought about a million guards at the Landsmeet. You were surrounded by murderous pirates on the Waking Sea. This is a walk in the park. A very small, musty, prison-like park… but still."

She shook her head violently. "I heard them talking," she said, biting her lip, eyes watering. "They think we're spies… we're going to be executed, Alistair. We're in prison in Orlais and nobody knows we're here and we are going to _die._"

"Don't-"

Alfstanna threw her arms around him, and before he quite understood what was happening, she was kissing him. Suddenly her skin was against his, and her mouth was on his, and her arms were around his neck in a not unpleasant way. Alistair was sure he was supposed to stop her, that was the right thing to do, but he didn't know where it was safe to put his hands, she was all just so _naked. _And soft, and female, and kissing him. Finally he settled on her arms and pushed her gently away.

"Alfie…" he said, stumbling.

"I'm sorry," she said, red as a beet. She wiped her mouth nervously and said, "I know I wasn't supposed to do that. Nancora Surana… Maker, what was I thinking, she could turn me into a pile of toothpicks. Can we just pretend that didn't happen? That would be-"

"Don't worry. It's forgotten," Alistair said lightly. "Special allowance for impending death."

Alfstanna smiled girlishly, her eyes bright. She was cute when she was flustered, he thought. Her arms relaxed under his fingers, her skin warm in his hands. He leaned towards her; she melted and closed her eyes. He remembered Nancora's voice the night he left, quavering and vulnerable. _Don't you dare leave me, _she said. He dropped Alfstanna's arms like they were hot pokers and stepped back, bumping into the cell door with a clang.

"Ow!" Alistair said, wincing. Alfstanna's eyes snapped open, and she stared at him, slack-jawed. "I think we really need to get out of here."

She nodded quickly and backed away from him. "Yes, please," she agreed, "but… how?"

He leaned his head against the cell door and thumped it. _We can handle them_, he could hear Leliana saying. Why had he listened to Leliana? She was the crazy one who rode the sails of windmills and thought the Maker made roses bloom for her. He gripped the iron bars of the cell again, rattling them, and hoped for a more practical miracle.


	12. Keeper Magic

**Author's Note**:

Thank you everyone for reading this far! This is the longest thing I've written since I was twelve and wrote hundred page novellas about unicorns. Maybe I shouldn't have told you about that… but don't worry, this is unicorn free.

* * *

..

The mabari had his nose to the ground, sniffing. As Nancora stepped off the bridge, Ser Poopier barked and bounded up the path through the Wending Woods, far ahead of her. "Hold on!" she yelled, and ran after him. The dog found a particular spot of dirt and attacked it, digging furiously. Paws flew and dust rose in billowing puffs. Nancora came up behind him and patted his rump. "Hey there, big guy. Did you find one?"

He bounced up, holding a mushroom in his teeth. Nancora inspected it and shook her head. "Well, yes, it's definitely a mushroom, but I don't think it's quite _deep _enough." Ser Poopier barked curiously, disappointed, and Nancora shrugged. "Honestly, Poops, I don't know why. You're the one who likes these things." He dropped his mushroom and whined, pressing his black button nose into her leg.

"Commander?" Nancora turned, startled, to see Velanna walking across the bridge behind her. Sweat beaded on the other elf's brow in the hot sun, and she squinted at Nancora. "What are you doing here?"

Nancora paused. Why _was_ she still there? Amaranthine was at peace again. The darkspawn were routed, the Mother defeated, and the Grey Wardens restored, but something held her in Ferelden, a worry knotted in her gut. "Just walking my dog," she said, looking back. "You?"

"I come her often, to pay my respects." She nodded up the path toward the old Dalish campsite, where her brethren were buried. She crossed her arms and glowered at Nancora. "It is good that I found you. It is difficult to talk at the Keep, and I have wanted to speak to you, alone. About the Architect."

"Velanna-"

"I need to understand why you refused his offer," she said, her voice tightening. "You could have ended Blights forever. My sister-"

"_Could_ have. Maybe." Nancora sighed, remembering how desperately Velanna had wanted to save her sister, Seranni. It was a desperation she recognized. "I don't expect you to understand, but…" she scratched her dog's head thoughtfully, "I've had my fill of dark rituals."

Velanna watched her, curious, but Nancora did not explain. "Walk with me," she said. Velanna started up the path again; Nancora whistled at Ser Poopier, and followed after her.

It was late afternoon when they reached the camp. In the calm after the siege, Velanna had cleared away the rubble, so that the place seemed peaceful. She knelt by the graves on the cliffside and picked at the weeds. As she passed her hand over them, a spray of white wildflowers bloomed beside each stone.

Nancora looked out across the forest. The cliff was the highest point in the Wending Woods, and on a clear day like this, she could see all the way to the sea. Clouds rolled in from the north, and a soft mist blanketed the horizon. The rain had been plentiful this spring, and when summer came it had covered the woods in brilliant green.

"It is beautiful here," Velanna said.

Nancora nodded. "It's strange," she said, "but I just realized, I love Ferelden." Velanna watched her, interested. "When I was in the alienage, and then the Tower, I thought I hated it. Why not, right? It hated me." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "But then I saved Ferelden. It was really hard, but I did it. Now I worry about her like she was my child."

"It took a lot from you as well," Velanna said. When Nancora looked at her, puzzled, she added, "Your lover. He died."

"Oh. That." Nancora waved her hand dismissively. "He's not really dead." Velanna's eyes widened, but she didn't say anything. "As far as I know, anyway… he's in Orlais. It's supposed to be this big secret, so I don't know why I'm telling you. I guess I'm getting tired of keeping it." Nancora glanced at Velanna out of the corner of her eye. "No one else knows."

"I'm sure Anders doesn't," Velanna said, with a hint of a smile.

Nancora buried her face in her hands. "That was a… misunderstanding." She peeked between her fingers. "Why? Did he say something?"

"He says a _lot _of things."

"Ugh," Nancora said. She dropped her hands and looked at Velanna seriously. "Just… don't tell anyone, okay?"

"Ha," Velanna said. "That won't be a problem."

"You kinda hate your fellow Wardens, don't you?"

"Not all of them," Velanna said, looking at her. Her moods were intense and mercurial, and just like that, Nancora was forgiven. She smiled at her. "If he's in Orlais, then why are you still here?"

"I don't know," Nancora said. "I guess I'm worried about something I did. Maybe something… really bad."

Velanna's eyes softened. Nancora trembled, and Ser Poopier licked her hand, rubbing his muzzle against her fingers. She remembered the horrible despair she felt when Riordan told her that one of them must die. Nancora had known more clearly than she had known anything in her life that it would fall to Alistair. Her Alistair, the sweet boy with a soft spot for roses and cheese, who squinted when he laughed and always tried to do the right thing. The Archdemon was going to immolate his soul.

Nancora felt tears welling in her eyes, and she blinked them back. She told Velanna about Morrigan's offer, the suffocating panic she had felt, the ritual she had begged Alistair to do, that he had not wanted to do it. How he left anyway. Velanna listened without comment. Nancora told her about the child who was Urthemiel, soul of the Archdemon, and how Morrigan had disappeared after the battle and still no one knew where she was.

"And I wonder," she said, her voice cracking, "I wonder if I've doomed everything I worked so hard to save." She laughed a little. "That's all."

"Why do you think this Urthemiel is dangerous?" Velanna asked. "Is it not the god of beauty?"

"It was also a nasty dragon that killed thousands of people." Nancora shivered. "You weren't a Warden during the Blight, so you can't imagine, but I felt it… screaming in my brain. It still scares me, just thinking about it."

"But the witch said…"

"Morrigan wasn't known for her honesty." Nancora ran a hand through her long brown hair. "I just wish I knew where she was, so I could be sure."

Velanna nodded. She looked up at the trees above them, where a flock of white swallows had landed among the leaves. "I could help you find her, Nan," she said softly. Nancora wiped her eyes and waited. "I have some Keeper magic I haven't shown you," she explained. "Do you have anything that belonged to this witch?"

Nancora thought for a moment, then said, "I have a ring she wore." She slipped Frostshear off the thumb of her left hand, watching the blue glow fade as she did. "I've been wearing it for a while, but she wore it first. Will that do?"

The Dalish elf took the ring from Nancora and inspected it. "It will," she said. She glanced at the dog and said, "Keep him quiet." Nancora grabbed Ser Poopier's collar and held him still. Velanna looked back at the birds, gripping her staff, and began to sing in Elvish. Her voice was gentle and mournful, so unlike her speaking voice, and Nancora was reminded of the song Leliana sang after they freed Witherfang. It filled her with a deep longing, and she found herself wishing she knew more about the Dalish.

All around them, the birds descended from the trees, circling them. The mabari pulled against her grip, but Nancora showed him a warning hand, and he stayed silent. The beating of their wings raised a wind that stirred the dirt and shook the leaves. Velanna held the enchanted ring and sang. The birds lifted off in all directions, and the song followed them into the air. Velanna relaxed, and she looked at Nancora. "There," she said. "If she can be found, they will find her."

"Shale would _hate _you," said Nancora, as she watched the birds depart. Spontaneously, she jumped up and hugged her. "Ma serannas, Velanna."

Velanna grunted. "We're going to have to work on your accent, lethallan."

"How long will it take?" Nancora asked. "The birds, I mean, not my elvish education."

She shrugged. "They are birds," Velanna conceded. She handed the icy ring back to Nancora. "They get distracted, they stop to eat and mate, sometimes they die. They can't cross the sea, or the mountains, but if this Morrigan is in Ferelden, we will know in a few months. Will that suffice?"

Nancora smiled. "That will be just fine," she said happily. It had been nine months. She thought they could wait a few more.


	13. The Stoney Lonesome

"I'm glad to be free and everything, Nan," Alistair said, as the last crackle of lightning sizzled off her hands, and the prison guard slumped to the floor, "but did you have to be so _convincing?"_

Nancora looked at him. Her head still hurt from where Ser Cauthrien hit her, but the haze had cleared. "I'm sorry," she said, blushing, and she gestured to the guard. "I promise I wasn't _really _trying to seduce him. You can tell, because of how I killed him afterwards."

"I don't know," he said, watching her. "You have some strange appetites."

She laughed, shaking her head, then stepped quickly out of the cell and walked across the room. Her pale skin flashed in and out of shadows as her bare feet clapped lightly on the stone floor. He followed her, checking for other guards, but none came.

"Our gear's in here, I think," she said, kneeling beside a chest near the door. "We should grab our clothes and go."

He came up behind her and draped an arm around her shoulders, kissing her neck. "We could wait a second on that."

"Alistair! All of Fort Drakon is after us, we need to get out of here," she scolded him. He kissed her again, and she felt his warm breath on her ear. She turned, smiling, and said, "Okay, maybe a couple seconds."

He leaned back. "No, you're right," he said. "We should go."

She shoved him. "You tease."

"Yeah, well, now you know what it feels like."

She reached into the chest and pulled out her yellow robes, slipping them around her shoulders. Alistair pulled on his armor and settled his helmet on his head. "I guess this means I have to be King," he said, as he grabbed his sword and shield.

She lifted her staff. "How do you figure?"

"Hello? Anora just hung us out to dry," he said. "You don't trust her to be Queen after that, do you?"

She shook her head. "What was she supposed to do, Alistair?" she asked. "You saw she was trapped. If she had told the truth, she would have been in prison with us. I'm sure she knew we could handle ourselves." She lifted her chin. "And we can."

"But-"

"Alistair, I told you," she said, "you don't have to be King if it's not what you want. The only reason Eamon can give me is that you are Maric's son, and the last of Calenhad's line, and blah blah blah." She put her hands on her hips. "That's not good enough. If we all did what our heritage demanded, then I would be a servant girl in some estate, and we both know that's not going to happen." She dropped her boots on the ground and stepped into them. "We can be whoever we choose."

He frowned. "Nancora," he said, brushing a stray hair out of her face with his hand. "Is this because of what I said? About us?"

She wilted. "Am I that obvious?"

"I'm not trying to hurt you," he said sincerely. "I'm just trying to do the right thing here."

"It's not why I'm supporting her," she said. He looked at her dubiously. "Okay, maybe it is a little, teeny tiny bit," she admitted, squeezing her fingers together, "but you said yourself, Anora is a great Queen. I truly believe that if just get rid of her father, everything will be fine. And if I happen to benefit from this belief, well…" She kissed him lightly. "It's like I said. I won't let you go, Alistair. No matter what."

He kissed her back. "You're very persuasive."

"We should get going," she said, glancing out the door. "How do you want to play this? Should we try to sneak around, or just fight our way out?"

"Sneak?" he asked. "Me? _You?_"

Nancora laughed. "No, you're right," she said, and she ran out the door. "Let's go make a mess." With a flick of her wrist, she lit his sword on fire. She looked over her shoulder and called back to him, "Come on, follow me."

-o-

That wouldn't work this time, he realized. Alfstanna had shouted herself hoarse with no response from the Orlesians. He tried to remember how he had gotten out of all those other impossible situations during the Blight, and the answer tended to start with _N _and end with _ancora. _It seemed unlikely that she would rescue him this time; thinking about her made him feel foolish, and more than a little guilty.

His eyes wandered to Alfstanna, sleeping on floor. She lay on her side, her knees drawn up, her head resting on her arm. He watched the curve of her chest rise and fall with each breath, then shook himself and looked away. Twenty years and he was _fine_. Why did nine months feel so damn long?

He heard footsteps in the corridor and looked out through the bars. The sharp percussion of heel on granite grew louder, headed his way. He wondered how Orlesians executed their prisoners. Fereldans liked a good beheading, but that seemed messy for fussy Orlais; he imagined they preferred a hanging, or perhaps poison. He would find out soon enough.

When the visitor appeared in front of him, he saw it was not guards, but Marjolaine, wearing a new dress and a smug smile.

"Oh, it's you," he said glumly, settling back into the cell. "Have you come to gloat, then? Here, let me do it for you. I am a terrible leader and very stupid, and you are much better than me, aha ha ha ha."

Marjolaine came up to the cell and looked inside. "It has come to my attention that we are seeking the same thing," the bard said. At the sound of her voice, Alfstanna stirred. She sat up and rested her head on her knee, watching them. "You want to stop an Orlesian invasion. I am tasked to assassinate its mastermind. Perhaps we can help each other."

Alistair blinked. "That's… surprising." Marjolaine regarded him coolly. He put his hands on the cell bars and said, "Be that as it may, I don't think I'm really in a position to help you."

"Getting you out is no difficulty," she said, waving her hand. "Before you agree, however, you'll want to hear who we are talking about, I think. It is Abelia Nabon. Do you know of her?"

Alistair shook his head, but Alfstanna drew a sharp breath and said, "She's a grand cleric of Orlais. One step below the Divine."

Marjolaine nodded. "She's also a _faucon_." She laughed at Alistair's blank stare. "They are an extreme faction in the Chantry. Ferelden is holy to the church, as you know, it is the birthplace of Andraste, and the root of the Chant of Light. The _faucons_ want to launch an Exalted March to get it back."

Marjolaine waited to see that they understand, then continued. "Recently they've become more… aggressive. They've acquired a few ships and two companies of chevaliers. They can't conquer a whole country with so few, of course, but they hope to retake Amaranthine and then force the Empress to send additional troops.

"In practicality the idea it is foolishness. It doesn't matter who was born there, Ferelden is a pile of dog filth that was always more trouble than it was worth. Advisers to the Empress oppose the invasion, and strongly, but Nabon has a certain influence and so they can't do anything about it. They feel if she were to meet an unfortunate end, the _faucons _would fall apart, and this business would be done."

"You can't be serious," Alistair said, frowning. "You really expect me to… what? Murder a priest? No."

Marjolaine shrugged. "Fine, that's fine," she said breezily. "I'll just go tell the guards they can start executing your friends, then." She turned on her heel and started to walk away.

"Wait." He stepped up to the bars, calling after her. "Please. None of this makes any sense. I don't… well, for starters… why don't you just do it yourself? How can I know you're not just making this all up? And why didn't you just tell us this before?"

Marjolaine sighed, and returned. "I don't really wish to explain the intricate nature of Orlesian politics to you," she said. "I can say only that it would be better if an escaped convict were suspected in the murder, rather than of an Orlesian bard." She paused, watching his face. "As for whether or not I'm telling the truth, feel free to make your own inquiries. You'll find that I am. This really is the simplest way to help your country."

He nodded slowly. "We have your friends," she said, "in case you are hoping they will rescue you. They are being held at another, more secure, location. If you succeed, they will be released, and you can all go home to your miserable little backwater, free as you like. I will even provide you with a fast ship."

Alistair's mind whirled. It was all very sudden, and he was sure she was trying to trick him, but he didn't know how. "But… this is impossible," he sputtered. "I'm not an assassin anyway. Why are you asking me?"

"What? You want me to ask Leliana? Or the Antivan?" Marjolaine asked, laughing. "You don't know them as well as you think. The minute I opened the door, they would sprint to the border faster than you could say 'treacherous bitch' and leave the rest of you to die. You're the one I can trust."

It was irritating how she said "trust" like it was a bad thing. Alistair shook his head. "If I do this, I'm going to need help," he insisted. "You can't expect me to do this on my own."

"Fine," she said, waving. "I'll be generous. You can have one of them."

"_One?_" he squeaked. He felt a crushing pressure in his chest, and he finally understood the panicked look in Nancora's eyes whenever she had to choose. It was strange to be on the other side of it.

"So who will it be, princeling?" Marjolaine asked. "The Bard, the Crow, or the plucky young Bann?"

Alfstanna jumped to her feet behind him. "Alistair, take me," she said. "I have no problem attacking the Chantry right now, believe me."

Alistair flinched, and Alfstanna's face fell. "Oh," she said. "You're not taking me. Is it because I kissed you? Because I _swear_ I was just confused, with the tension and the partial nudity. It won't happen again." She looked at him with big, pleading eyes. "Please, _please_ don't leave me here."

Her lip trembled, and Alistair wished again that he didn't have to make this choice. "Alfstanna, I promise that I will come back for you," he said, taking her hand. "I would take you if I could, but for this, I can't…. I need a professional. I'm sorry." She turned away from him sharply, hiding her face. He sighed. For a moment, Alistair thought about asking Leliana to murder a grand cleric of the Chantry and quickly rejected that idea. "It has to be Zevran," he told Marjolaine.

She raised an eyebrow. "So you'll do it?"

He swallowed hard, and nodded.

Marjolaine smiled, and produced a skeleton key from her dress. "A regrettable scheduling error has left this area unguarded," she said. The door swung open. "You will find supplies outside the door at the end of the hall, and I will tell the Antivan to meet you at the Cathedral." Alistair stepped forward; he heard Alfstanna move behind him. "Go ahead and try," Marjolaine said, holding up a warning hand. She had a dagger folded up against her wrist, and Alfstanna fell back.

From the corridor, Alistair looked back at her, alone in the cell. The door closed again, and she met his eyes. "Good luck," she said; on that, he turned away, and escaped.


	14. Rogues in the Cathedral

The Grand Cathedral seemed even larger up close than it had from the docks. Alistair stood at the front door and looked up. Stout rectangular structures flanked the central basilica on either side, each one topped with rows of pointed spires, sharp as swords.

The cavernous entrance yawned at him, its massive doors open wide, impassive. Visitors of every race and country flowed in and out, in waves, swirling around him. Zevran joined him wordlessly, his hands knotted behind his back. Alistair took a deep breath and entered.

"Vos chapeaux, monser," the Sister said, gesturing at his head.

Alistair stared at her blankly. He felt Zevran's elbow poke him in the ribs. "She wants you to take off your hat."

"Right, of course." He removed it, fingering the felt in his hand, and walked inside. His boots clicked on the polished marble, and he looked down, his eyes following the patterns built into the intricate stonework. Lines of columns held up the vaulted ceiling, and beside them, oak pews waited in neat rows for the faithful to sit and pray.

Further ahead, the space opened up, the ceiling sweeping higher to peak in a great bronze dome. At the front was an altar, where several Sisters gathered together, their heads bowed. An older woman- Alistair thought she was the Reverend Mother- sat on the dais, receiving visitors. Behind her hung a large painting, the image of a burning Andraste in reds and blues and sparkling gold leaf.

Alistair turned, walked to the pews and took a seat. He watched the Sisters move around the altar; one of them lit a candle. Zevran settled down beside him. "So, fearless leader," he said, following his gaze. "Do you know which of those fine women needs assassinating?"

A few months ago, Alistair would not have noticed, but he knew the elf well enough at this point to hear the catch in his voice, to notice the tense line of his posture. He sighed, and looked at Zevran seriously. "We should probably talk," he said.

Zevran blinked. "About what?"

"The other day," he said. "You left me steeping in a puddle of my own drool, and now it's all awkward."

Zevran shook his head. "I told you to forget it, Alistair," he said, forcing a smile. "I think you will agree, we have much more important things to deal with right now." He paused, and shrugged. "So you have a love child with Morrigan. Who am I to judge?"

Alistair froze. "I… told you that?" he asked, dumbstruck.

Zevran raised his eyebrows. "You do not remember, truly?" Alistair shook his head. "Hmm. I do not know why I am surprised. I apologize for taking advantage of you, Alistair. I forget sometimes you are so young." Alistair opened his mouth to say something, but Zevran stopped him, holding up a hand and saying, "You can spare me an explanation of why you did it, or how Nancora has forgiven you, or whatever it is you want to say. I do not rightly care."

"Forgiven _me_?" Alistair sputtered. "Zev, Nancora _ordered_ me to do it. I've barely forgiven _her_." Zevran was thoroughly confused, and speechless, for once, so Alistair added, "It's a Grey Warden… thing. Suffice to say, it was to save her life." Zevran hesitated, unconvinced. Alistair stared at him sincerely and said, "What did you think I… _ugh_… Morrigan? Really?"

At this Zevran relaxed, dropping his shoulders. "By the Maker, Alistair," he said, laughing, "Why does anyone join your weird blood cult?"

Alistair chuckled, in spite of himself. "They aren't forthcoming on the fine details," he said. "Plus, did you hear what Alfstanna said about lyrium withdrawal? I was stuck between a rock and a hard place, there."

They sat silently for a while, watching worshippers move up the aisle to receive the Mother's blessing. The Sisters held hands and raised their voices as they began to recite the Chant together. It was the part about moths going toward the flame, and Alistair tuned it out. Beside him, Zevran exhaled, and he felt himself easing again in his company. After a while, Alistair said, "You aren't in love with her, are you?"

"Who, me? With Surana? No, of course not,_" _Zevran said, startled. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

"This fat lip, for one."

"I am her man, without reservation," Zevran said. "This is an oath I take perhaps too seriously, but you have nothing to fear from me." This time it was Alistair's turn to look unconvinced. Zevran shook his head. "Alistair, as someone who was once in competition for her heart, I can assure you that Nancora is yours, entirely. The woman will grow old waiting for you, if you let her. Please do not."

Alistair nodded, feeling hot behind the ears, and the elf looked away, satisfied.

A young couple knelt in front of the Mother. As she spoke to them, the Sisters ended their verse and began another, this one from Threnodies, an admonition of mages. "You were apologizing for plying me with alcohol to learn my secret, right?" Alistair said absently. "Before, I mean. Because if there was any other advantage taking, I should probably hear about it."

"Yes." Zevran said. "Sadly, we did not have our way with each other," He heaved a theatrical sigh. "Of course, if you like... I _could_ find another bottle."

Alistair tried to look annoyed. "I'm _so _glad we're friends again, Zev."

A woman in red velvet robes, her steel gray hair gathered in a tight knot at the back of her head, entered from a side door near the altar. The Sisters back away from her quickly as she strode through them towards the Reverend Mother. Alistair watched her, curious, as she leaned in to the Mother's ear and said something, quiet but intense. The Mother's face blanched, and then the woman in red robes retreated back to the door.

"Did you see that?" he asked, nodding at the door.

"Mmm," Zevran said, squinting. "Whoever that was, the Reverend Mother is frightened of her. Do you want to see what is behind that door?"

"Is there another way in?"

Zevran jerked his head towards the entrance, and they went back outside, and started off around the edge of the Cathedral. As they moved further from the entrance, the crowd thinned. They reached the edge of the building and turned around the corner. There was a door on the end of it, and no one in sight. Zevran pulled something sharp and metal out of his pocket, and after a few rough movements, the door opened.

"Try to be quiet," Zevran said, and cautiously, they entered.

The room was small and cluttered, with stacks of books and papers covering every surface. "This is bookkeeping," Alistair said, glancing around. Zevran eyed him curiously. "Believe it or not, I know my way around a Chantry. Important people have offices closer to the center."

Leaving the room through an interior door, they found a hallway and walked down it. Alistair kept shooting glances over his shoulder, until Zevran bumped into him, hard. "You are _embarrassing_ me," he said. "I have never seen anyone look so suspicious in my life. Stand up straight and pretend you belong here."

"I'm sorry, Zev, stealth is not my strong suit." He stretched his shoulders and tried to look natural.

After passing several doors, Alistair stopped in front of one and said, "I think this is it."

"Why this one?"

"It's red," Alistair said, and he pointed at a brass nameplate beside it. "Also it says 'Nabon' on it."

Zevran nodded, and worked the lock until it clicked, then pushed the door open. This room was larger, and sumptuously decorated, with a large wool rug on the floor and burgundy curtains over a wide bay window. There was a desk in front of the wall on the left. Alistair went to it and rifled through the drawers.

"Looking for a pen?" Zevran asked. "I know what they say, but it really is easier to kill someone with a sword."

"I'm looking for proof," Alistair said, scanning a pile of vellum sheets, letters and logs scrawled in Orlesian. It would have been helpful if he had chosen someone who could speak the language, he realized. He dug through another drawer. "I don't want to kill a holy person unless I really have to."

"Mmm. How cute."

The sound of young women's voices in the hall startled him, and he looked up at Zevran. The assassin had heard them too. After a moment of alarm, he launched himself at Alistair, scrambling over the desk and grabbing him by the shoulders. Alistair stared at him, wide-eyed, as Zevran pulled himself tight against him and started kissing him, madly, on the lips.

"Zev… what are you…" Alistair said, struggling. He pushed Zevran off of him, with great effort. The elf was all hands. "Listen, I really like you too, but-"

"Shut up and kiss me, you fool." Zevran sprung on him again, and held on like an octopus. His arms were locked around his neck, with one leg wrapped tightly around his lower half. At this point, Alistair gave up, and he dropped his arms. _Why does this keep happening to me?_ he wondered.

The door opened, and two Sisters entered, chattering in Orlesian, and fell suddenly silent. Zevran jumped off him, and Alistair blushed, feeling their stares. "_Quel arrive?_" one of them demanded. The other lowered her head and tried not to giggle.

Alistair sputtered, unable to speak, when Zevran chimed in. "My dear Sisters," he sad, bowing. "We were here to worship, but were overcome by lust and snuck away in here to… Forgive us. We are bad, bad men. But really, can you blame me?" With that he slapped Alistair playfully on the rear.

Alistair jumped and glared at him. Zevran rolled his hand, urging Alistair to play along. "Uh, yes. It's true, all of what Ze-" Zevran flinched, and he caught himself, "-ppo, um, said. Totally unbearable… lust."

"Zeppo?" asked one of the Sisters.

"Yes, it is a common name among elves in my country," he said, with a sharp look at Alistair.

The Sisters conferred. "Antivans," one of them said, as if that explained it all.

"You not can be in here," the other said, turning back to him, irritated. "I have to be telling the grand cleric. It is very bad."

Zevran clapped his hands together and begged, "Please, no, Sister. We will go now, to pray and repent our wicked ways." He looked at her earnestly, pouting, until she relented and stepped away from the door. Zevran grasped Alistair's hand and tugged him along behind him as he slipped by her. "Thank you, Sister. Your mercy is a credit to your faith."

As they left Nabon's office, and hurried down the hall, Zevran turned to Alistair with flashing eyes and said, "Relax, Alistair, I don't fancy you. I was just trying to buy us some time."

"Yes, thank you, I get it now," Alistair said, wiping his mouth, "but did you have to use so much tongue?"

Zevran shrugged. "I was in the moment."

They exited out of the Cathedral the way they had entered it. Luckily, they did not run into anyone else, and the door was still open. When they were outside again, Alistair took a deep breath of fresh air and relaxed. Zevran circled him, checking to make sure they were alone, and then turned to him expectantly.

"We need to form a plan," Zevran said. "I do not think we can risk going in there again, do you?" Alistair shook his head, and Zevran added, "I am sorry you could not find what you were looking for."

Alistair still had a handful of vellum in his hands from the grand cleric's desk. He thumbed through them and stopped on one of the sheets. Alongside the indecipherable scrawl, the technical plans for a ship were sketched in blue ink. "Actually, I think I did," he said, inspecting the drawing. He showed it to Zevran. "Does this look familiar?"

"Intimately," Zevran said, nodding. "It looks like the _Spoony Bard_."

"Exactly. It looks like the ship where we first met the chevaliers. A merchant vessel outfitted for covert naval attacks. I can't imagine why a grand cleric would need something like that, unless they were, you know, a devious mastermind." He looked through the other pages. Designs for other ships, and schematics for things he could not recognize, and more Orlesian writing. He frowned. "Unfortunately, I can't read any of this," he said, and his eyes found a familiar block of text. He pointed at it. "But I think this is an address."

"Bravo, Alistair!" Zevran said, his face brightening. "Do we have a plan?"

"Break in, look around, and…. _assassinate_ her?" This last he said in an Antivan accent.

Zevran grinned. "That will do."


	15. Nabon's Warehouse

**AN**: Thanks for all the awesome reviews so far, I really appreciate them. We're closing in on the end here, so beware, it's about to get a little gory. Excelsior!

* * *

Marjolaine had given him his armor, and Duncan's shield, but Alistair did not recognize the sword she left him. It was a simple longsword, without decoration, but he tested its balance and sharpness, and it satisfied him. Zevran, however, held his own enchanted weapons.

"I'm surprised she gave you those," Alistair said, indicating the daggers.

"So is she," said Zevran, grinning.

The address led to a warehouse on the docks, and they waited for nightfall to proceed. It was deathly quiet and seemed abandoned. Zevran moved silently to the door, testing the lock. It broke easily. Alistair stood at his back, watching the shadows. There were no guards, or alarms, or defenses of any kind, apparently. An unnatural stillness pressed close around them. Zevran looked at him, feeling it too.

"Something's wrong," he said, backing away from the door.

A shadow jumped down from above them. A cloaked chevalier, a gleaming greatsword in his hands, he screamed a battle cry. Alistair swung into a fighting stance, catching the attack on his shield. He drew his sword. Metal rang against metal, and as he parried a second blow, his own sword shattered.

He blinked. A faulty blade, he realized. For a moment, he locked eyes with the chevalier, both surprised. Zevran buried a dagger in the knight's neck, and he fell to the ground.

Other shadows on the docks began to move, and the silverite armor of chevaliers glinted in the dark. Alistair moved closer to Zevran. "Two companies," he breathed, dropping his broken sword. "How many chevaliers are in a company, do you think?"

"Too many," Zevran said, grimacing.

Alistair tried to cover them both as he ducked to pick up the chevalier's sword. It was awkwardly large in his hand. He felt the elf tug his arm, and turning, saw him dive behind some crates. A flaming arrow dug into a barrel beside them and exploded, singing his hair. Alistair ran after him.

"We've been set up."

"Yes, and more the fools, we." Zevran yanked out his bow and aimed it. In the dark he could see better than a human, and he fired rapidly, but he could only hold their position so long. A chevalier slipped by and charged around the crates, greatsword raised. Alistair surprised him, jumping up and running him through before he saw him there. It was pure luck; he was inexperienced with the heavy weapon and would not have won a duel.

Zevran spared a glance at him. "Any bright ideas?"

"Uh… was the door booby-trapped, do you think?"

"That's what I would do. A fire trap, or some sort of poison."

"Try the window?" he suggested. "They wouldn't follow us through the door, and maybe we could find the trap and use it against them."

Zevran grunted. "Unless the window is trapped as well." An arrow whizzed by his head, its tip ablaze, and his eyes widened. "But right now I am willing to try anything." He gestured for Alistair to take the lead.

While the elf frantically emptied his quiver into the dark, Alistair shoved himself through the nearest window and clattered to the floor. Nothing exploded, to his relief. "Come on!" he shouted, and Zevran sprang quickly after him. Once inside, Alistair kicked a crate until it broke, his leg aching, and barred the window with the largest piece. It would not hold for long; he braced himself against the window.

Zevran shouldered his bow. "I've no more arrows," he said. "If we cannot use this trap…." He slid along the wall and knelt by the door. A tripwire ran across the door, and he followed it to the side of the door, to a plain metal box, about three hands wide.

"Well?" Alistair asked, trying not to sound too desperate.

"I've never seen anything like this before," said Zevran, examining the device. Alistair remembered all the complicated plans he had seen in Nabon's papers. Weapon designs, he realized. "I am not sure I can disarm this," Zevran said, frowning.

Alistair's heart sank. They were just two men against an army, trapped, out of arrows, and him with an unfamiliar weapon. They were going to die there, he realized suddenly, and he would never see Nancora again. Regret swamped him, and he felt himself drowning.

He remembered her, one breezy day in Denerim market, when she'd caught him looking wistfully at Goldana's front door. The others hadn't noticed, but Nancora had seen his loss and understood. _"_Blood doesn't make a family," she'd told him. He'd frowned at her, thrown off, and she'd pointed at the gates to the alienage, beyond them. "My blood kin are just through there, but they wouldn't even recognize me now. They disowned me at the first hint of magical talent." A long breath. "I was nine."

"Sorry… that's awful. Now I feel like a big whiner."

"Not actually my intent," she'd said, smiling. Taking his hand in hers, she'd squeezed it gently. He remembered the vital comfort of her grip. "What I'm trying to say is you can make your own family, Alistair. I just want you to know you aren't alone." She had looked at him with her round elf eyes, once so alien to him, and he thought she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. In that instant, he had known with perfect clarity that he would spend the rest of his life with her. It was simple and pure and it was love.

Then after the Archdemon it had to go and get _complicated_. Alistair sighed and said, "I ran away."

Zevran looked up. "Huh?"

Alistair shook his head. "I said I was leaving to help her," he said, "but I realize now that I've been avoiding her." When Zevran scowled at him, confused, he shrugged and added, "I thought I should admit that, before I died."

"Ah, the maudlin stage," Zevran said, clucking. "I am still in delusional bargaining. You skipped ahead."

Zevran saw something in the mechanism, and with a quick _aha! _he reached for it, and pressed something. After a few tense seconds, he had the trap in his hands, disarmed. "See? We might yet survive," he said, grinning. "Although I still have no idea what it does."

The window rattled behind him, as someone pounded on the wood with the hilt of a sword. "Fantastic!" Alistair shouted through gritted teeth. "Can you make it… do whatever it does? Now?"

Zevran looked at the trap, perplexed, then he fiddled with it for another moment. Alistair took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He heard the door open, as Zevran threw the trap outside and slammed it shut again.

A deafening _boom _shook the air_, _rattling the support beams, and Alistair felt heat smoldering through the window. He jumped back as the skin of his arms burned. The window was still. "That was more powerful than I expected," said Zevran, a little awed. It was quiet outside. "I think we may have thinned the herd. Come on, out the back."

Zevran ran through the warehouse, and Alistair followed him. A second tripwire ran across the back door. Finding another window to the left, Zevran opened it and said, "My turn this time, right?" Before Alistair could answer, the elf scurried through it. He disappeared below the sill for a moment, and Alistair held his breath until his head popped up again. He glanced over his shoulder at Alistair and smiled.

"And… still alive," he said quietly, "although I doubt-"

Suddenly Zevran's body tensed as an arc of lightning enveloped him. _Magic_, Alistair thought, although it looked different somehow. Red and yellow around the edges, not blue, he realized. He focused his thoughts and tried to dispel it, but the spell held. Confused, he tried again, and nothing.

Zevran's eyes rolled back in his head. _Okay, try something else_, Alistair thought, and he hurled himself through the window at Zevran, knocking him over with his shoulder and pushing him out of the lightning. For a moment, the electricity bit him, and he yelped in pain.

As they fell to the ground, Alistair tucked and they rolled away. He rose to his knees to check Zevran's face. "Andraste's _tits, _that hurt," Zevran cursed, shaking. "Is there a mage…?"

Alistair sensed the area, and shook his head. "Not unless they're the mana-free kind," he said, standing.

"Ha! A grand cleric of the Chantry would not use _mages_," intoned a voice, a woman's, steely and wizened. _Nabon, _Alistair thought, looking to his right. In the dark he saw the silhouette of a woman walking towards them with even, purposeful strides. Behind her followed a cadre of chevaliers, an honor guard. "You'd be amazed what dwarven ingenuity and human enterprise can accomplish on their own. A power to rival magic, but your templar tricks won't work against it."

Alistair offered his hand to Zevran, who took it and rose shakily to his feet. He gripped his daggers gamely, but he was winded and wouldn't last long in a close fight. "Feeling maudlin yet?"

Zevran managed a smile. "Yes," he said. "If I start to cry, will you hold me?"

Alistair laughed and counted the chevaliers. There were twelve, he thought; they were still vastly outnumbered, even discounting her not-magic. He looked around quickly, trying to find an advantage. "I admit, I'm surprised to find you still alive," Nabon said, stopping. "That first explosion was meant to kill you." She was tall, and gaunt, and when she stood, she loomed, like someone accustomed to being feared. She held a glass and metal ball in her hand, by her hip. With her other hand, she motioned to her knights, and they closed in on them, crossing in front of the door to the warehouse on their way to him. "It's for the best, I suppose. You'll make a much better trophy this way, unspoiled."

He looked at the door and said a quick prayer. "If I had _any _idea what you were talking about," Alistair said, "I'm sure I'd be thoroughly disturbed." Then he spun around and whipped his greatsword, as hard as he could, at the door.

Praise the Maker, it connected_. _The sword crashed into the door; the latch broke and the door shifted, tripping the wire and triggering the trap. Alistair jumped on Zevran and knocked him to the ground as a fireball bloomed from the door and enveloped the chevaliers in flame. The heat broiled the air, and Alistair heard the shrieks of the Orlesians as he buried his face in the dirt.

Zevran grunted. "I would make a lewd joke about this, Alistair, if it weren't for the_ crushing torture,_" he said. Alistair realized he was still on top of Zevran and scrambled off him. "You weigh a _ton_."

"And you're a teeny tiny person. So there." Alistair stuck out his tongue and got to his feet. The fire had crested, filling the air with smoke and ash. He couldn't see past the tips of his fingers, which meant the Orlesians couldn't see them, either, if they were quiet. "We should get out of here," he whispered.

"I think I saw the masts of ships, that way," Zevran asked, lowering his voice to match Alistair's. He pointed as he stood. "She might have a private dock behind the warehouse."

"I didn't see them," Alistair said, "but I trust you. Lead the way."

Zevran nodded and pivoted to run again, when two chevaliers, faces blackened but uninjured, emerged from the smoke behind him. "Zev! Incoming!" Alistair shouted. The chevaliers were surprised to find them. Zevran hopped out of the way of a clumsy attack before striking his assailant under the arm, but his dagger glanced off the metal armor and the chevalier spun around to face him again.

As Alistair moved to help him, he realized he was now unarmed. Zevran noticed and tossed one of his daggers at him. Catching it with his free hand, Alistair was grateful that his fingers closed around the hilt and not the blade. "You know how to use one of these?" Zevran asked.

"Pointy end goes in the bad guys?"

"That is a good start." Zevran engaged the chevalier with his remaining dagger, turning the knight's greatsword away with a subtle turn of his wrist. The chevalier was inexperienced, that was apparent, but he was strong and Zevran was tiring. Alistair had no time to worry about it before the other chevalier intercepted him, and he broke the knight's charge on his shield. The impact rattled him up to his shoulder.

He pushed back against the chevalier, and tried to slash him with the edge of his weapon, but the dagger was short and his opponent's reach was long. He slipped out of range and then lunged at him, as Alistair managed to catch him on his shield again. Jarred, he gritted his teeth and swung at him. Again, he could not reach the chevalier with the dagger, and he had newfound respect for Zevran, who was so astonishingly _short_ and still managed to kill people with this wee thing.

The chevalier laughed at him, aware he was out of reach. "Vos ne pouvez gewinnen," he said, smirking.

Alistair scowled. "Yeah, well… so's your face."

Which was actually not wearing a visor, he noticed. Daggers could be thrown, he was pretty sure people did that, and it had worked with the sword, hadn't it? Alistair said another prayer and pitched the dagger at his smug Orlesian maw.

His luck abided: the dagger sunk into the chevalier's cheek, and he screamed, spurting blood. In that momentary confusion, Alistair charged and knocked him to the ground with his shield, then quickly yanked the dagger out of his face and stabbed him in the gut. Warm blood and viscera gushed all over his hand. It was very gross, frankly, and Alistair decided that he definitely preferred a longsword.

"That was… spirited," Zevran called to him, "but if you are quite finished, I could show you how it's done." Alistair joined Zevran in three long strides and passed the bloodied dagger back to Zevran; he would readily admit he wasn't much use with it, anyway. The assassin took it gratefully and then disappeared behind the chevalier, who looked around, confused.

"Revenau hier e luttez com' le guerrier!" the chevalier called after him, his voice cracking.

"That pesky language thing again," Alistair said, catching the chevalier's attention. As he lost sight of Zevran, Alistair played distraction. "A good quip is wasted on you, isn't it?" The chevalier regarded him blankly, as he expected. Alistair sighed heavily. "Dou est toilettes? Ce ratatouille est délicieux." He shrugged. "Sorry, that's all I've got."

The chevalier blinked at him, flummoxed. "Vos êtes l'imbécile?"

"It's been suggested, yes."

The young chevalier swung his sword abruptly, and Alistair deflected it, biding his time. He saw Zevran's face flash behind his opponent for an instant as he raised his greatsword one last time, and when the weapon bounced off Alistair's shield, Zevran slipped his dagger between the plates of his armor, stabbing him in the soft flesh of his lower back. As the chevalier swiveled, startled, Zevran lodged his other dagger between his shoulder blades, and the chevalier collapsed in a heap, dead.

"Sorry I doubted you, again," Alistair said, smiling.

Zevran didn't answer. He held his hand to his side, and looked up at Alistair, wide-eyed. When he pulled his hand away, it was covered in blood. "I think his sword caught me on the way down," he said, his voice thin. As Alistair watched, his face paled. "Of all the dumb…"

He lurched forward, and Alistair grabbed him, checking the wound. It was grave. He lowered Zevran carefully to the ground and pressed his hands back against the gaping hole. "Keep your hands here," he said urgently, trying to stop the flow of blood. Zevran tried to speak, but he had no breath left, and his eyelids fluttered as he passed out.

Things had gone pear-shaped again, _fast, _and Alistair felt the hot flush of panic. The sound of footsteps made his heart jump out of his chest.

"Tsk, if that isn't treated soon, it will turn necrotic." Turning, he faced Nabon. At this close range, her age betrayed her; she was at least fifty, her face deeply lined, with streaks of gray running through her dark hair. The ball in her hand glowed through her long fingers, and her red robes whipped around her in the disturbed air.

"I admit you've fared better than I expected," she said. "Marjolaine warned me not to underestimate you and I should have listened." Nabon smiled, baring her teeth. "It's a mistake I won't repeat."

"Thanks, but I won't give you the chance," Alistair growled, and he rose to his feet and lifted his shield to smack her with it. Before he reached her, Nabon raised her hand and pointed the ball at him, and suddenly Alistair was frozen in place, electricity coursing through him. Every inch of him burned, but he couldn't move, couldn't scream. Nabon pressed closer, the whites of her eyes glowing in the night as she stared at him.

"Your appearance here is most alarming," she said. "Imagine what the guards will say, when they find your body here. The son of Maric the Savior, supposed dead, has attempted to murder a grand cleric of Orlais! Such plots the dogs have made against us. Maker's Breath, but the Empress will have no choice but to commit to a full scale invasion."

_So this is the trick, _he realized, cursing himself.

"Sleep now, little prince," she said, cackling, as the orb flared again. That shocking pain; Alistair tried to find Zevran but couldn't even turn his head. _"_Tomorrow we can parade your body before the masses, and they will rally around me as I lead an Exalted March to reclaim our empire." Three more of Nabon's knights limped up to her and regarded him dispassionately. They looked _bored_… and of course they are bored, he realized: it was over. Zevran was down, or dead, and he felt like his skin was melting off and he couldn't move and he was dying. The end.

Poor Alfstanna, he thought suddenly, as his last moments of consciousness stretched out to infinity… he wasn't going to be able to keep his promise. Good-bye Nancora, good-bye guilt, good-bye Ferelden and sunsets and veiny blue cheeses. Hello, Maker.


	16. Violence is a Solution

**AN**: Thanks to WikiHow, for teaching me how to sail. I'm a little frightened that someone might set out on open water armed only with the internet, but it was very useful.

* * *

.

Alfstanna heard a guard approaching her cell and jumped up. Alistair had only left a few hours ago, surely they had not come for her already…? She saw the guard, a woman, her face down, walking slowly. Perhaps she regretted her duty, Alfstanna thought. She could use that doubt to her advantage, she hoped; her body tensed, ready to fight.

The guard reached her cell and opened the door. Alfstanna rushed forward. When the guard looked up, Alfstanna saw her face, and recognized it was Leliana. She froze, and her face broke into a big smile, but as she opened her mouth to speak, Leliana said, "Don't look happy," and she turned to stone.

Leliana slapped her, her hand open. It made a lot of noise, but didn't sting. "Mind yourself, prisoner," she said, loudly, and she grabbed Alfstanna by the wrist and led her out.

"Marjolaine said you were being held somewhere more secure," Alfstanna said quietly, as they walked away.

"Not _that _secure," Leliana said, her eyes flashing. "When she took Zevran, I knew it was only a matter of time before she double-crossed us. Marjolaine does not play fair. I was ready when she came back for me."

"Is she…?"

"Yes," said Leliana, and her face darkened. "But Zevran and Alistair are in grave danger." She glanced over her shoulder. "Alfie, Marjolaine was not hired to kill Nabon, she was hired _by _Nabon."

Alfstanna gasped. "By her? But why?"

"For that, I can only guess," she said, "but I know they are walking into a trap. We must hurry."

-o-

"_And the sky grew black with arrows, and ten thousand swords rang from their sheaths_." Half-conscious, Alistair was dimly aware that Abelia Nabon was still talking. Maker, she had a lot to say, didn't she? "Fereldan will fall before the righteousness of our armies, and we will rage across the countryside and purge the land of-"

Mid monologue, an arrow struck her in the shoulder. She shuddered and fell back; her hold on him shuddered and snapped.

"Maker preserve your souls," a woman's voice sang out, "for tonight we free them from your mortal flesh!"

_Leliana_. Her voice pierced the darkness, and Alistair thought it was the sweetest sound he had ever heard. Alfstanna ran in from behind him, sword in hand, teeth gleaming as she screamed a battle cry. Arrows rained down around them, and one of the chevaliers fell in the flurry.

Free of her energy, Alistair tried to move, but he found his muscles did not respond, as if his arms and legs belonged to someone else. He fell to his knees beside Zevran's body. With great effort, he forced his hand around the handle of his curved blade.

Before him, Nabon trembled where she lay on the ground. He dragged himself to her in shaky jerks. As he raised the dagger, she looked at him with frightened eyes. A zealot, a megolomaniac, yes, but still an old woman, frail, and a priest. The burden on his soul was already so heavy. He hesitated.

She saw him and raised her hand, the device still in her hand. The memory of its bite shook him, and Alistair realized it was too late to second guess himself. _In for a silver, in for a sovereign_, he thought grimly, and before she could catch him again, he plunged the dagger into the cleric's heart. Silently, it was done. He pulled the dagger from her chest and stood. Control returned to his limbs, and he was able to keep his feet under him.

Leliana had leapt into the fray beside Alfstanna. Before Alistair could reach them, Alfstanna dropped the last chevalier with a deft riposte, and she paused to breath. Leliana dropped her shoulders and stretched her neck, then moved among the bodies, collecting her spent arrows. Her eyes fell on Zevran, lying still, and she ran to him. "Zev!" she shouted, kneeling beside him and lifting his head in her hands. She pulled a flask from her belt and poured its content down his throat.

She stroked his throat until he swallowed. Then Zevran coughed, and spat up blood, and swallowed some more. He still looked pale, and Leliana held her breath, watching him. After a moment, his eyes opened. "Am I alive again?" he asked, blinking at her. "I swear, a moment ago I was beside the Maker, in the arms of a nubile angel."

Leliana rolled her eyes. "I don't think that's how it works, Zev."

His head in her lap, Zevran studied her appreciatively. "Yes, it is," he said, and Leliana blushed.

Sheathing her blades, Alfstanna sauntered up to Alistair and punched him in the shoulder. "So, _we_ came back for _you_," she said, her eyes blazing. "Your ass got rescued by a girl."

"I'm not a stranger to that experience, actually," he reminded her, "but the timely rescue is much appreciated. How did you…?"

Alfstanna grinned. "-get out? That was Leliana." The red-head looked up at the mention of her name. "She's a master at breaking out of Orlesian prisons, at this point."

"Oh, hardly," said Leliana, her eyes sparkling. "I'm a journeyman, at best. You have to do it three times before they even let you join the guild." She turned back to Zevran. "Can you stand?"

"If you will help me."

Leliana stood and offered him her hands, helping him to his feet. As they walked unsteadily to Alistair, she stopped over the prone body of the grand cleric, inspecting Nabon's face.

"I'm sorry we killed a priest," Alistair said.

"Abelia Nabon? Don't be," Leliana said, shaking her head. "She is well known to me, a cruel and hateful woman who caused much suffering. The Chantry is better off without her." She toed the body with her boot, and then looked at Alistair. "Nabon wielded great power, Alistair. I admit I am surprised we were able to defeat her."

She didn't say it, but he knew she meant _without Nancora. _Alistair smiled and said, "I told you."

A horn sounded, and they heard confused shouting in Orlesian, and a flurry of metal footsteps. _Guards_, he realized, come to investigate the explosion. The fire in front would only hold them for a little while. He looked at Leliana.

"If they find us here…" she said, worried.

"Nabon still wins." Alistair looked at the pile of bodies around them. "Do you have a fire bomb?" he asked her. Leliana nodded, and fumbled for it. Alistair took it from her and threw it at the ground; Nabon and her chevaliers lit up like a pyre. He backed away quickly, the fire hurting his eyes. "With any luck, they'll think one of Nabon's science experiments backfired. Come on, let's go."

He ran towards the water, and the others followed. Several ships that looked like the _Spoony Bard_ were moored there, and he considered taking one of them, until he saw a smaller one, a single-masted vessel at the end. It was sleek and sat high in the water; he thought it looked fast. "All aboard," he said, with a flourish to the boat.

Leliana frowned. "Can any of you sail?"

"Sure can," Alistair said, grinning at Zevran. "A couple of swashbucklers like us." He hopped aboard and ran to the halyards.

"Speak for yourself," said Zevran weakly, as he leaned on Leliana. "I couldn't even _hoist_ the _mainsail_ right now."

Alistair paused, his hands on the halyard; why did Zevran have to do that? Then he shrugged, and yanked it, and the mainsail and jibs sprang up. Alfstanna boarded behind him, as Leliana steadied Zevran. He could hear distinct voices now, as the guards drew closer. To their good fortune, the sail caught the wind immediately. The boat was nimble, as he'd hoped, and it moved quickly out to sea.

Looking back, he saw Val Royeaux grow small behind them, until the mighty fire they had left was just a bright spot on the shore. People swarmed around it, but no one noticed them, and none followed. Alistair breathed a sigh of relief, and was glad to be alive.

-o-

"So… now what?" Alfstanna asked.

"I'm not sure," said Alistair, as he checked the wind with his finger. It was still behind them. He found the bridge and turned the wheel. It responded easily, and as the boat turned to the side, it slowed. "Do we still have to deal with an invasion?"

Leliana shook her head. "I don't think so," she said. "Marjolaine lied about a lot of things, but what she said about Nabon was true, I think. She was the leader of the _faucons. _With her dead, and many of their chevaliers dead as well, they should be finished."

"Wait. Does that mean… we won?" he asked, somewhat surprised.

Leliana nodded. Zevran held up a weak fist and said, "Yay."

Alistair was mystified. He had made a series of questionable, sometimes terrible, decisions, but they had done the best they could, and in the end it had all worked out. Was this what it was like for Nancora? Somehow his being in charge hadn't been a complete disaster, and he allowed himself to feel a little bit proud. Not that he wanted to be king, or anything- definitely not- but small decisions he could handle, maybe.

He knelt to check the shackles holding the mast. It looked different than the _Spoony Bard_, but they seemed to be secure, at least. They could go wherever they wanted. "Let's head to Waking Sea, then," he said, turning to Alfstanna. "I think it's time we got you back to your bannorn."

"Ah, shucks," said Alfstanna, pouting. "I'm not kidnapped anymore?" She didn't look completely pleased with that idea, but she yawned and said, "Fine. I'm going to bed." She looked around. The boat was small; there was only a single tiny cabin, and no hold. She sighed and jerked her head at Zevran. "Come on, elf. But keep your hands where I can see 'em."

They retreated to the cabin, and Alistair wished he could sleep as well. His whole body ached, but there was work to be done. Leliana stood beside him. "I could not sleep now," she said. "My heart is still racing. I will stay with you and help, if you can use me."

"Yes, by all means." He pointed at the jib sheets, flapping in the crosswind. "We need to trim the sails. We're luffing like crazy here."

She looked at him sideways, as though she didn't recognize him, and waited for him to show her what that meant. The rigging on this boat were strange, and all the ropes were anchored to metal pins he didn't recognize, but he thought they could knot them tighter, just the same. Leliana already knew all the knots, he didn't ask how, and they made quick work of it.

When everything looked neat as he wanted, Alistair turned the wheel until the bow pointed east and the sails filled again. The boat lurched forward, and he kept his hand on the wheel, guiding her. "I don't know if a ship this small can handle the deep water," he told her. "We should keep close to the shore. Keep us from getting lost, too."

Leliana nodded and turned away from him, and he caught her looking aft, towards Val Royeaux.

"I'm sorry," Alistair said, watching her. "I don't think we can get you back home."

"I can't ever go back," she said, waving a hand. "I knew when I went after Marjolaine that it would be too dangerous to stay in Orlais. It's not my home any longer… but I made that choice a long time ago." Leliana hugged herself and nudged him with her shoulder. "We all make decisions we have to live with, Alistair," she said, in a faraway voice. "If we are strong enough, we see them through."

He nodded slowly. "Alfstanna told me I am welcome in Waking Sea," she said. "I can sing for her court, and we will find adventures together. I look forward to it." She paused, watching him. "I'm sure you are welcome there, as well, if that is what you want."

He could hear her unasked question, but he wasn't ready to answer.

After a moment, Leliana rested her arms on the railing and looked out across the sea. "I came over land last time. I must say, the sea is beautiful." They admired the dark water together. It was a full moon, and the moonlight danced on the waves.

"Why is it called the Waking Sea?" Alistair asked.

"I don't know," she replied, "but I suspect it is because it is east of Orlais, where the sun rises, and it was Orlesians who named it."

Alistair yawned. It had been a long day, and he was fading. "As long as you're making stuff up," he said, "you might as well invent something more colorful. Aren't you a bard?"

"Well excuse me, ser critic," she said, huffing. She shooed his hands off the wheel and took it herself, then motioned for him to sit down. "As you please. Once upon a time, there was a young arlessa, a chocolate-haired beauty known both for her bravery and for her acumen. She was also an elf, and a mage, so it was quite extraordinary that she came to be in charge of an arling. An important one, even, with a port and everything."

Alistair eyed her suspiciously. "Such an imagination you have."

"Hush, don't you want to hear the story?" Leliana's eyes twinkled in the dark as she continued. "Given her good fortune, she should have been very happy, but something was missing from her life. And every morning when this lovely girl would wake up alone, in the quiet hours of the morning, she looked out across the sea, hoping to find it." She flashed a smile. "And _that _is why they call it the Waking Sea."

A breeze blew off the water, and Alistair shivered; Leliana found a blanket tucked underneath the wheel and handed it to him. "Thanks," he said, taking it and wrapping it around his shoulders. "I don't know why you're all so sure that Nancora is just sitting around, waiting for me."

"Who is talking about Nancora?" Leliana asked, laughing. "This all happened _ages _ago, do you think they only named the Waking Sea last year?" He glowered up at her, and she leaned against the steering wheel and stared at him very seriously. "Alistair,_ of course_ she's still waiting for you. Despite her talents and accolades, you were all she could see of tomorrow." She sighed. "It was not the same for you?"

"No, it was. I mean… is, I guess"

"That makes things simple then, yes?" It should, he thought. Maybe it did. Leliana closed her eyes and drew a long breath, savoring the salt air. After a moment, she opened her eyes and looked at him in that fond, sisterly way of hers. "You must be tired," she said gently. "I think I have this little boat under control now, if you would like to get some rest."

Alistair nodded. He had no energy to move, and the cabin would be crowded anyway, so he curled up right where he was, under the blanket. When he closed his eyes, he could see Nancora standing on the shores of Amaranthine, her dark chocolate hair draped around her shoulders, looking for the answer to a question. The image stayed with him as he drifted off to sleep.


	17. Daffodils

Nancora looks completely ridiculous. She is kneeling in his tent, naked except for a couple of long vines coiled elaborately around her body. Her hair falls over one eye, and she looks at him with the other one, and says in a sultry voice, "Let's explore the other side of your bestial nature."

"Uh, what are you doing…?" Alistair asks, quickly closing the tent flap behind him.

"I'm the Lady of the Forest, silly," she says, thwapping him in the chest with the back of her hand. "Don't play coy. I _know _you were into her."

Alistair does not dignify that suggestion with a response. "So that's who you are," he says. "Who am I supposed to be in this scenario, then? A werewolf?"

She smiles demurely. "If you want."

Alistair feels his skin burning, and he laughs nervously. Sometimes he doesn't quite know what to do with her. She tosses her head, and her long curls flip gracefully over back. With a shimmy of her hips, the vines fall to the ground, and Alistair finds himself staring at her breasts**. ** She cocks her head to the side and waits.

Okay… he does want. "Grrr," says Alistair, and pounces on her.

She giggles, as he wraps his hands around her waist and bites her neck, pushing her to the ground. Her legs are around his hips and she struggles with his buckles. There are far too many buckles. He helps her, and after an awkward eternity, he shrugs off his armor and finally they are both naked. He kisses her, smells her hair, feels her clever fingers on his skin.

For some reason, they are suddenly lying on a bed of daffodils.

-o-

Alistair woke up with a stupid smile on his face. Morning sun drenched the deck in warmth and light. He rolled over with a yawn and looked up to see Zevran, standing over him, staring down at him with crossed arms. His face scrunched in mock disgust. "You are _such_ a pervert."

Alistair rolled his eyes. "Shut up," he said, and swatted at him as the elf skittered out of reach.

He got to his feet and stretched. After checking their bearings, he remembered the strange rigging. "Zev, take a look at this with me," Alistair said, walking over to where the halyard connected to the deck. The elf followed him, curious. He pointed at the pins and winches. "What do you think all this does?"

Zevran shrugged. "How should I know?"

"I don't know," he said, frowning. "You're good with mechanical stuff, I guess."

"Alistair, I pick locks, I'm not an engineer."

"Oh." He wasn't quite sure how it was different, but he looked back at the rigging. Metal cables ran along the deck by the railing, and he followed them up to the bridge, where he found a row of gleaming metal levers. He pulled one; nothing happened. He put it back where it was. There was a red painted switch above the levers, and he flipped it.

Steam puffed out of a vent behind him, and Zevran hit the deck, but nothing happened, except now there was a strange metal scratching sound at the edge of his hearing. Alistair pulled the lever again. One of the sails turned. He pushed the lever back; it turned the other way. His eyes widened.

"I think this is another one of Nabon's doohickeys," he said.

Zevran got up warily. "Are you sure you want to be touching that?"

"I don't think this one's meant to explode," he said, as he examined the levers. He tested each of the them, and watched the sails turn and tighten as he did. All the navigation on the boat seemed to be automated. "I think this was her personal transport." Checking the wheel, Alistair noticed that this, too, was automated like a clock, with notches to hold it in place. He felt the giddy excitement of a boy with a shiny new toy. "One person could sail her alone," he realized.

"Ah." Zevran was suddenly watching him very closely. "And where exactly would that person be going?"

That question. For the past ten months, he had been running away, but it was time to make a choice, and see it through. When he left, he had not known how much could change in a year. His storybook romance had become a tattered thing, scraps of cherished memories patched with love and a thread of bitterness. Were there enough pieces left to make a whole? Only one way to find out.

"Amaranthine," he said at last. "I think it's time."

Zevran nodded. "Good."

"Were you going to punch me again if I said the wrong thing?"

"No," he said sincerely. "I think I would shake you furiously, perhaps slap you a few times, until you came to your senses, my friend."

Alistair smiled, remembering his first view of Zevran, bound at Nancora's feet. She had been so angry he thought she was going to cover him with boils, but then something changed when he spoke. She saw something in him that he did not understand, at the time, and suddenly the assassin was her constant companion. Maker, but he had been jealous. He certainly hadn't seen it himself. But a lot could change in a year.

He asked, "Where are _you_ going?"

"I have not decided." Zevran looked up at the sky, then back at Alistair, and said, "Of course I have my vow, but I think Nancora would agree I've played my part." Alistair nodded, that seemed to be enough. He was still Nancora by proxy. Zevran said, "I would like to stay with Leliana, for a time." When Alistair's eyes widened, he said, "It has been good to see her again. We've bonded."

"You were naked in prison, too, weren't you?"

"Yes," Zevran said, with that sly smile. "Eventually."

-o-

Waking Sea, the town, was smaller than Amaranthine, but bigger than Lothering and some of the other small villages Alistair had seen. Alfstanna told him that her bannorn included the town itself, as well as the outlying farms and outposts that relied on her for protection. When she stepped of the boat, men at the docks recognized her immediately, and bowed.

"Please rise, my good people," she said, her voice somehow different from the one he knew. "I am glad to be back among you, and would see your faces once again."

Alistair blinked. To him she was Alfie, an effervescent warrior who followed him with doe eyes. In the months they'd spent together, he realized he had forgotten what being a Bann really meant. As they stepped onto the pier, he saw Leliana make a small movement with her hand, hooking Zevran's pinky in hers. That was weird, too.

Alfstanna turned back to him. "I guess this is good-bye," she said quietly, watching him. "We may never see each other again."

"I know," Alistair said. "Thank you for saving my life, and all that. I won't forget you."

Alfstanna's eyes brightened. "You don't have to leave right away, do you? I may not have mentioned this before, but I have a castle. It's pretty swell. You could stay for dinner, maybe. Or for ever."

He blushed. "It's very flattering but…"

"You're expected in Amaranthine. I know." She shook her head. "It's just… running a bannorn is not as romantic as you might think. There's always a guild contract, or a food shortage, or something else entirely _boring_. Everything exciting that has _ever_ happened to me," and she looked at him with those wide doe eyes, "has been with you."

"That'll change," he assured her. "Zevran and Leliana will see to that."

"Maybe." Spontaneously, she jumped back on the deck to kiss him on the cheek. "I hope things work out with Nancora."

He smiled. "Me, too."


	18. Far From Over

Summer yielded to autumn, and a crisp wind blew in across the apple orchards, bathing Vigil's Keep in the sweet smell of fruit and loam. Nancora breathed deeply, and watched for birds. Then autumn became winter, the cold air biting at her face as she hurried between buildings, and she decided it was time.

She found Velanna alone on the roof of the Keep, in the passage between towers, under the sky. Even in the cold, she still favored the outdoors; Nancora suspected she missed her life as a wanderer. Nancora approached her, holding the golden staff she had retrieved from Kal'Hirol.

"Aneth ara, Nan," Velanna said pleasantly. She eyed the twisted wood in Nancora's hands with interest. "That's a very large stick you have there."

"Yes, lethallan," Nancora replied. In the relative peace of the last few months, Velanna had taught her some of the ways of the Dalish, of their gods and their language and their stories. She held the staff out to the other elf mage. "I want you to have it."

Velanna's eyes widened. "This is an excellent weapon," she said, inspecting it. "Don't you want it?" Nancora shook her head emphatically, holding the staff out further. "Of course. You favor that showy half-moon thing. This one is better, you know."

Nancora blushed. Since the day she found Lamppost in Winter, she had used it exclusively, but she wasn't about to tell Velanna _that_ story. "I like frost magic," she mumbled. Then, after a moment, she asked, "Have you heard anything from your, um, birds?"

Velanna shook her head. "I'm sorry, Nan. I think your witch has left Ferelden." Velanna frowned. "I get the impression she went north, but seeing as we're sitting on the bottom of Thedas, I'm not sure that helps you."

"I thought as much," said Nancora, scratching her chin. "I'm leaving then, Velanna. I wanted to say good-bye."

Velanna searched her face, and Nancora saw her struggling for the right words. There was a bond between them beyond elves and magic. After a moment, Velanna took the Staff of the Lost and said, "Ma serannas, Commander."

Nathaniel Howe was practicing with his longbow behind the keep. His gaunt face was drawn tight in concentration. Pulling back the bowstring in a smooth motion, he let loose an arrow; it flew from his bow, straight and true, into the heart of the target. "Nathaniel," she called to him.

He turned to her, bowing his head. "Commander," he said.

"I have something I need to tell you," Nancora said. She beckoned to him, and he came to her, his head down and hands clasped together, as if he expected reprimand. He was always so serious. "Nathaniel, I want you to take over as Warden Commander." Nathaniel's mouth opened in surprise. "I have already told Varel and Mistress Woolsey, so it's official. Unless you object?"

Nathaniel gaped for a moment, then said, "Commander, I don't object. In fact I'm very flattered, but do you mean… right this instant?"

Nancora said, "Yes." When his eyebrow jumped up his forehead, she added quickly, "I'm a fighter, Nathaniel. I kill darkspawn, and the occasional shape-shifting pride demon. I'm not meant to be an Arl. Luckily, I think you are."

He nodded, watching her, as she turned back toward the Keep.

At her quarters, she found Ser Poopier asleep on her bed; he roused himself and came to her side. She packed a bag and hoisted it to her shoulders. Outside again, she took one last look at the fortress that had been her home for half a year. Unsure what she would say to Oghren, or Anders, or any of the others, really, Nancora took a deep breath and simply left.

It was time to disappear.

-o-

Nancora pulled her cowl tight around her face as she entered the port city of Amaranthine, her dog trotting after her. She lowered her head and hoped that no one would make a fuss. The docks were on the north side of the city, and she skirted the edge of town toward the sea. There were always merchants trading with Orlais. She should have little trouble finding a ship to take her to Val Royeaux.

As she crested the top of a hill above the docks, a spring in her step, she looked down and scanned the ships moored there. Several merchant vessels, a fishing boat, and a few small cruisers floated off the piers. On the water, she saw a strange ship with metal rigging approaching the port. It was a small, nimble ship, built from an unfamiliar design.

She glanced down the docks to see if anyone else was watching it. A few sailors and longshoremen looked up, curious, but then returned to their work. As it drew closer, she saw that the sails were emblazoned with the solar crest of Orlais. The memory of Zevran's note surfaced unexpectedly. She looked back at the Orlesian ship and her jaw dropped.

_Andraste's flaming sword_, she realized, in a cold rush of horror,_ the "old soldier" was Loghain!_

Kin of Leliana were Orlesians. Of course! It seemed obvious now, and she smacked herself in the face. The Orlesians were _invading, _just like Loghain had feared. Despite months of advance warning, she was completely unprepared. She took a deep breath, whistled to Ser Poopier, and started running as fast as she could towards the docks.

After a year of obsessing over Morrigan's lost baby, after working so hard to save Ferelden from the darkspawn, wouldn't it be just so impossibly _stupid_ if she lost to some chevaliers? Arl Eamon would find a way to blame her, right before his execution. She pushed herself faster. The ground flew by beneath her feet, and she tore across the grass, full tilt, heedless of her own safety.

She reached the shore and raced down the pier, gripping her staff. She stumbled on a loose board, straightened herself, and started off again. It was a small ship. If there weren't too many aboard, and she took them by surprise, she thought she could handle them, if she was fast. She skidded to a stop and shrugged off her backpack, panting like a mabari.

A man jumped off the ship and tied it to the pier with practiced grace. Nancora lifted her staff, but then lowered it. He was not a chevalier. Unarmed, he was dressed in a pair of well-worn trousers and dark leather boots. He was tall and confident, his bare chest sun-kissed and muscular. From underneath his broad-brimmed tricorne, a ridiculous felt hat with a single billowing feather, the tendrils of his hair shone golden in the reddening light.

It took her more than a few moments to realize it was Alistair.

"Oh," she said with a start, "it's you."

He looked up, surprised. Recognition lit his eyes as they slid over her. "Nancora," said Alistair, as he stood up. Then he frowned, thinking of something. "You… haven't been standing here this whole time, have you?"

"What? No, I just got here." Why would he think that? She walked up to him slowly and stood in front of him, examining his face. There was an awkward pause as their eyes met, as neither of them could remember what to do. When Nancora had imagined this moment, she had never been this sweaty.

Getting up on titptoes, she plucked the feathered monstrosity off his head. "This hat is very, _very_ silly."

Her elbow brushed his shoulder as she came down, and Alistair caught her arm, and it was mended. He scooped her up in his arms and lifted her into his kiss. There were a year's worth of kisses in that kiss. She closed her eyes and yielded to his embrace, her toes dangling above the pier. A year's worth of longing, of regrets, of stolen moments and missed birthdays and idle chitchat by the fire.

When he lowered her to her feet again, Alistair lifted her chin to look at her. "You're prettier than I remember," he said, smiling, as he pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"Really?" she said, grinning back. "Because you're kind of disappointing, with the sunburn and the hat hair."

Alistair laughed, and Nancora laughed, and it felt like waking up. Alistair knelt to pick up her pack and grunted; it was heavy with supplies. "Planning a long trip?" he asked.

"I was going to Val Royeaux," she told him. "You know, to find you. The trip was shorter than I expected." Her eyes widened. "Oh! Alistair, the Orlesians. I didn't understand your message at all until just now. I wish you hadn't been so cryptic! Where are they? What do we do? How many do you think-"

"Don't worry, Nan," he said, putting his arm around her. "I took care of it." When she looked at him, confused, he shrugged. "I suffer from an invincibility complex. It's your fault, mostly."

She raised her eyebrows, unsure of what to think. Then she glanced around behind him, realizing that someone was missing. "Where's Zevran?" she asked, frowning. "You didn't kill him, did you?"

"Of course not. We got on famously." Nancora wasn't sure if she could believe that, but he seemed genuine, as always. Alistair said, "I just dropped him off in Waking Sea, with Bann Alfstanna. And Leliana." He shook his head. "You probably wouldn't believe it if I told you."

She opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again, then shook her head and said, "So you have a ship now."

"Oh, it's a boat," he corrected. "Why? You want to go somewhere?"

She hooked her thumb in the pocket of her robes. "I did some magic," she said, "and I've determined that Morrigan has left Ferelden." Alistair's face grew serious at the mention of her name, and Nancora cleared her throat nervously. "I think we ought to go find her and straighten out of a few things."

He nodded, and exhaled a deep breath that he had been holding for a long time. "I can't tell you how happy I am to hear that," he said sincerely. "Where were you thinking?"

"Well," Nancora said carefully, "if I were an apostate mage in possession of a draconic Old God, I know where I'd go." Alistair waited for her. She said, "I think we should start in Tevinter."

"That makes sense," he agreed. They walked over to his boat, which bobbed gently in the water. Ser Poopier jumped from the pier to the boat and turned back to look at them, barking. With a winning smile, Alistair knelt down, lifted her in his arms and carried her aboard.

The setting sun was bright in her eyes, and she closed them. Alistair had come back for her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on tight. Were they really going to sail off into the sunset? Nancora thought that might be impossibly cheesy, but everything was right with the world again, so she couldn't let it bother her. With Alistair at her side again, she had to expect a little cheese.

"If we're going to do this, you'll have to help me," he said, setting her down on the deck. "This ship doesn't sail herself, you know. Well, it sort of does, but… I'm sure there's some stuff you could do. I'll show you how everything works." His face lit up. "Oh! You could use your magic to direct the wind. We'll practically fly." When she looked unsure, he smiled and added, "Don't worry, I'll point you in the right direction."

She blinked. A year was a long time, and Alistair seemed different, somehow. Older, maybe. She saluted him cheekily. "At your order, Captain," said Nancora. "It will be nice to follow you, for a change."

..

**Author's Note**: The end!

Thanks to all you lovely people who read the whole thing, for real, wow, I love you. Thanks also to Joss Whedon, Robert E. Howard, Jennifer Carpenter, Mark Twain, and the wonderful world of Disney, for the various inspirations and/or thefts. Thanks to my husband, whose sense of humor shaped the story, and who was willing to tell me when it sucked, occasionally. And thanks especially to David Gaider and Bioware, for the obvious.

~jj


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